FULLER 


; 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    CHILDHOOD 


A  NEW  ENGLAND 
CHILDHOOD 


BY 


MARGARET   FULLER 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,    BROWN,    AND    COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  79/6, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved 


Published,  September,  1916 
Reprinted,  December,  1916 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Gushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mail.,  U.S.A. 
Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


THIS    BOOK    IS    WRITTEN    TO 
LITTLE   PHILLIS   HOPE 


FOREWORD 

THIS  is  a  true  story  of  a  little  boy  who 
grew  to  be  a  notable  man  —  Edmund  Clarence 
Stedman. 

I  lived  in  his  house  when  he  became  a  man, 
but  before  that  day  I  too  had  been  a  little 
child  and  had  lived  in  the  places  where  he  had 
lived ;  I  too  had  tried  to  make  a  trout  brook 
out  of  the  Stedman  rain  barrel ;  I  had  listened 
to  the  graybeards  tell  tales  in  Fuller's  store ; 
I  had  fashioned  a  seat  in  the  willows  along 
Bobbin  Mill  Brook,  —  his  brook  of  lost  youth 
that  has  minished  until  to-day  it  is  only  a 
rivulet  whose  gurgle  you  must  stay  your  step 
to  catch ;  and  I  have  interchanged  confidences 
with  Lady  Sarah  Huntington,  —  last  of  the  La- 


viii  FOREWORD 

dies  Huntington, — staring  past  her  all  the  while 
into  the  marvelous  oil  painting  on  the  wall, 
whose  actual  clock  in  its  canvas  belfry  pealed 
with  marriage  bells  as  often  as  the  slow-footed 
afternoon  brought  due  a  laggard  hour.  These 
places  of  which  I  tell  you  are  real  places :  the 
people  are  real  people. 

Do  I  not  know  of  what  I  write !  Gentle 
Annie  who  fetched  Edmund  in  the  buggy  to 
her  father's  house  has  carried  me  up  and  down 
the  Judge's  stairway,  with  my  head  held  close 
against  her  cheek  and  with  the  silvery  shadow 
of  her  brow  against  my  tangled  hair.  On  the 
topmost  steep  of  the  Hampton  burial  ground, 
my  kinsmen's  names  stand  fast  around  the 
names  of  their  best  friends,  the  Stedmans  long 
years  gone. 

I  tell  you  this  because  when  you  read  how 
the  child  Edmund  brought  upwards  his  heel 
in  sharp  pain  under  the  heaviest  of  his  grand 
father's  strokes  and  shattered  the  spectacles  on 
the  old  gentleman's  nose,  I  want  you  to  believe 
that  he  surely  did  lie  across  the  venerable  knee 
—  a  little  four-year-old,  both  too  proud  on  his 


FOREWORD  ix 

own  account  to  raise  an  outcry,  and  too  tender 
of  his  fair  girl-mother  who  was  sobbing  from 
sympathy  in  the  next  room.  And  when  you 
read  how  he  ran  away  after  having  been  given 
over  to  the  Judge,  his  uncle,  —  I  want  you  to 
remember  that  he  ran  away  in  the  dream  of 
finding  that  same  fair  mother,  and  that  "  as 
he  sailed,  as  he  sailed,"  the  big  round  face  of 
his  uncle  who  was  pursuing  him  did  loom 
slowly  above  the  gunwale,  and  the  runaway-in- 
pinafore  was  passed  forth  by  the  black-frocked, 
ministerial-looking,  tipsy  captain  and  forced  to 
walk  the  plank  right  into  the  uncle's  skiff. 

My  very  hand  which  writes  these  pages  to 
you  has  handled  pages  and  pages  of  letters 
written  by  that  same  child  to  that  same  far-off 
mother  through  the  wistful  years  that  followed, 
—  years  which  we  who  love  young  children 
would  forget. 

And  above  all  else,  I  want  you  to  feel  that 
he  was  most  worthy  of  remembrance  in  that 
he  loved  all  little  children,  and  in  that  all  men 
were  children  to  him  if  they  were  saddened,  or 
in  need,  or  were  helpless  —  even  as  sheep  with- 


x  FOREWORD 

out  a  shepherd,  and  as  little  lads  without  a 
mother. 

Now  read  my  story  and  be  certain  that  every 
word  I  say  of  him  is  true. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

THE  stanzas  from  Mr.  Stedman's  poems  included  in 
this  book  are  published  by  the  kind  permission  of  Messrs. 
Houghton,  Mifflin,  and  Company,  authorized  publishers  of 
his  works. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  INVITED  FAIRY                                         i 

II  THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY           .        .        8 

III  EDMUND'S  FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME         .      20 

IV  A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS     .        .        .        .38 
V  THE  HURRYING  WORLD     .        .        .              52 

VI  FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN  ...      69 

VII    HARLAND  HOUSE 87 

VIII  CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S  MANTLE   ...      96 

IX  TWILIGHT  AND  EVENING  STAR           .        .117 

X  PRINCE  FLORIZEL  ON  HIS  TRAVELS           .     121 

XI  AH,  THE  IMMORTAL  PASSADO  !           .        .137 

XII  OUT  OF  THE  FRYING  PAN          .        .        .146 

XIII  THE  WANDER  SUMMER      .        .        .        .15? 

XIV  GOD  TEMPERING  THE  WIND      .        .        .180 
XV    FULLER'S  STORE 195 

XVI  A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL        .        .220 

XVII    THE  GILDED  CAGE 241 

XVIII  THE  SNOWS  OF  YESTERYEAR     .        .        .255 

XIX    THE  DOORSTEP 269 

XX  THE  INFINITE  SHORE        .        .        .        .289 


A  NEW   ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 


THE  INVITED  FAIRY 

A  THREE-STORY  brick  house  with  uncompro 
mising  square  windows  set  in  its  square  walls 
and  with  a  ponderous  oaken  door  lit  by  a  gleam 
ing  brass  knocker  stood  at  the  corner  of  Main 
and  High  streets,  Hartford,  gazing  down  over 
meadow  land  to  the  Connecticut  River  and  to 
the  ships  that  came  and  went  as  if  they  sailed  in 
the  grass,  —  but  this  was  in  the  year  1833. 

In  those  days,  huge,  round,  rough  cobblestones, 

—  at  least  they  seemed  huge  to  little  feet,  and 
they  were  certainly  rough  and  round,  —  studded 
the  thoroughfare,  and  heavy  drags  and  stages, 

—  there  were  no  horse  cars  then,  nor  any  railways, 

—  rattled  and  rumbled  as  they  jolted  along  on 
their  road  through  the  town.     Close  at  hand, 


*        A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

according  to  a  man's  way  of  thinking,  arose  the 
steeple  of  the  Reverend  Doctor  BushnelPs  Meet 
ing-house,  one  of  the  trio  of  sister  churches  that 
were  the  Three  Graces  of  Main  Street.  They 
seemed  near  at  hand  to  a  man,  but  to  a  pretty 
truant  just  learning  to  gad  alone,  they  were  a 
Sabbath-day's  journey  distant. 

You  will  guess  that  I  have  a  reason  for  telling 
you  so  particularly  about  this  house  and  this 
church.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  was  chris 
tened  in  the  North  Congregational  Church  by  the 
Reverend  Horace  Bushnell,  and  he  came  to  the 
brick  house  to  live  when  he  was  just  one  year  and 
six  months  old. 

Edmund  was  born  in  a  cottage  in  Main  Street, 
October  the  eighth,  1833,  at  eight  o'clock  of  the 
evening.  His  hair  was  as  black  as  a  pirate's,  and 
he  wore  it  long.  He  was  as  solemn  as  an  owl. 
He  stared  at  his  flannels  as  if  he  did  not  approve 
of  their  cut ;  he  stared  at  his  rattle  as  if  it  might 
perhaps  beguile  a  younger  child  than  he;  and 
when  he  was  presented  with  a  coral  ring,  he  stuck 
his  fist  into  his  mouth  to  signify  that  he  could 
amuse  himself. 


THE  INVITED   FAIRY  3 

But  he  was  not  the  only  baby  under  the  cot 
tage  roof  that  autumn,  according  to  the  nurse 
Susan's  way  of  thinking.  A  violet-eyed,  beautiful 
girl  lay  on  a  couch  drawn  close  to  the  bedroom 
window,  and  when  she  called  the  tiny  infant, 
"little  son!" — the  motherly  Susan  who  was 
cosseting  him  against  her  comfortable  homespun 
dress  glanced  over  his  dusky  head  to  the  youthful 
head  against  the  pane,  and  cried,  "Baby,  indeed ! 
you  are  nothing  but  a  baby  yourself,  my  pet." 
Then  she  stroked  the  child-mother's  golden  curls 
with  her  one  hand,  and  with  her  other  hand  held 
fast  the  helpless,  struggling  little  elf,  lest  his  un 
witting  fists  might  rumple  his  mother's  lace- 
ruffled  gown ;  and  she  cooed  to  the  one  and  scolded 
the  other;  and  then  cooed  over  the  other  and 
scolded  the  one,  until  to  hear  her  you  could  not 
have  told  which  of  her  two  charges  was  the 
baby. 

But  the  real  mother  was  watching  the  real 
baby  with  deepening  eyes.  She  caught  his 
clinging  hands  and  kissed  them.  His  wandering, 
regardless  glance  fixed  on  her  smile.  His  serious 
brow  drew  itself  into  a  pucker.  Is  he  going  to 


4       A   NEW   ENGLAND    CHILDHOOD 

cry?  Is  this  the  way  for  a  young  gentleman  to 
greet  his  mama  whom  he  sees  for  the  first  time 
clad  not  in  everyday  white  but  in  a  silk  as  blue 
as  her  eyes,  and  with  her  ringlets  wound  up  into  a 
wreath  of  gold. 

"He  smiles!"  cried  the  mother,  radiant. 

"He  will  become  a  notable  man,"  replied  the 
nurse  sagely.  "A  babe  that  smiles  before  it  is 
forty  days  old  is  born  to  be  a  wonder." 

"He  is  to  be  a  poet  —  my  poet,"  murmured 
the  young  girl  fondly. 

"Heaven  forbid!"  cried  Susan  in  consterna 
tion.  "How  could  we  live  with  any  more  papers 
in  the  house !  Mercy !  It's  books  everywhere 
now,  and  scribblings  on  everything.  I  don't 
dare  to  throw  away  an  old  billhead,  let  alone 
clean  off  a  shelf !  Not  that  we  all  are  not  glad 
that  you  are  a  poetess,  Miss  Elizabeth,  and  not 
that  we  are  not  proud  of  you.  But  pray  heaven 
that  the  lad  proves  like  his  father,  —  a  downright 
brave,  true  gentleman;  with  a  purse  open  to 
whoever  has  need  of  it,  and  with  never  a  thought 
for  himself.  There  is  not  many  a  husband  who 
cherishes  and  fosters  his  young  wife  as  Major 


THE   INVITED   FAIRY  5 

Edmund  cherishes  you,  my  pretty  girl,  —  and  he 
so  full  of  strength  and  spirit. " 

"But  little  Edmund  could  be  like  his  father 
and  be  a  poet  too,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  toss 
of  her  lovely  curls. 

"Don't  you  go  to  putting  notions  into  his 
head,"  said  Susan,  prancing  the  baby  to  and  fro 
to  keep  his  gaze  from  fixing  upon  his  mother. 

"Well,  Susan,  you  may  invite  the  good  fairies, 
Constancy,  and  Honor,  and  Truth,  and  Gener 
osity,  and  Self-forgetfulness  to  come  to  his  chris 
tening,"  returned  the  mother,  with  a  wilful  curve 
to  her  lip,  "but  I  am  going  to  invite  the  Muses 
-the  whole  Nine!" 

"And  let  Want  come  too,  and  Misery,  and 
Grief,  I  suppose!"  cried  Susan,  on  her  mettle. 

"Certainly;  what  will  it  matter  so  long  as 
Song  is  there !  Dame  Care  may  come  to  be  my 
little  son's  guest,  if  she  likes!" 

"It   does   well   enough  for  you   to   say  it - 
you  who  have   never   known   a   hardship,    and 
have  a  man's  arm  to  fend  for  you  and  guard 
you    and    a   man's    shoulder    to   set    itself   be 
tween    you    and    each    ill-lunged    breath    that 


6       A  NEW   ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

blows.  Ah,  Miss  Elizabeth,  how  many  a  poor 
woman,  watching  your  husband  pass,  may 
not  murmur,  —  'Would  to  God  that  I  had 
such  a  man  ! ' ' 

"My  husband  likes  to  take  thought  for  other 
people.  He  enjoys  it.  Taking  care  is  a  good 
deal  a  matter  of  choice." 

"Taking  care  is  a  matter  of  heart,"  said  Susan 
stoutly. 

The  girl-mother's  eyes  were  as  wonderingly 
round  and  as  vaguely  questioning  as  the  baby's. 
She  did  not  understand  greatly  this  talk  of  misery 
and  self-sacrifice.  Self-sacrifice  was  something 
about  which  one  wrote  in  poetry,  and  concerning 
which  it  was  well  enough  for  elderly  folk  to  prate. 
She  smiled  gaily,  and  again  the  baby  smiled. 
And  when  he  did  smile,  what  an  owlish,  self- 
contained  young  person  he  was,  —  a  perfect 
parson ! 

"We  will  have  Song,  will  we  not,  dear  heart !" 
she  cried,  snatching  at  the  darling  feet  to  kiss 
them.  "  Song  and  Music ;  and  then  if  that  ugly 
fairy,  Dame  Care,  likes  to  come  too,  —  let  her 
come!" 


THE   INVITED   FAIRY  7 

But  good  Susan  was  on  her  way  to  the  kitchen, 
bearing  the  baby  Edmund  in  her  arms,  and  with 
her  palm  and  forefingers  stopping  both  his  ears, 
lest  his  wits  be  drawn  away  from  following  the 
homelier  path  of  his  father. 


II 

THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

BY  the  time  that  Edmund  came  to  live  in  the 
brick  house,  he  was  considered  old  enough  to 
take  a  constitutional  by  himself,  and  he  used  to 
trudge  down  the  street  to  the  Reverend  Horace 
BushnelFs  sanctuary  and  hold  forth  in  the  portico 
after  the  fashion  of  that  worthy.  But  it  was  safe 
at  home  that  he  practised  his  untried  powers 
unabashed,  and  it  was  after  a  year's  practice  that 
his  mother's  sister,  his  Aunt  Melissa,  found  him 
on  the  floor,  seated  on  his  cousin's  head,  and  dron 
ing  in  his  babyhood  treble  a  forceful  sequence  of 
ohs  and  ahs. 

"Land  alive  !  Edmund,  what  are  you  doing?" 
cried  the  astonished  lady. 

"Pweaching,"  lisped  the  nigh  three-year-old, 
and  straightened  manlike  to  feel  the  pull  of  his 
suspenders. 


THE   UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY      9 

"But  you  are  sitting  on  your  cousin's  head; 
he  is  black  in  the  face." 

"I'm  Weverend  Bushnell,  and  I  want  him  to 
listen." 

"But  Doctor  Bushnell  never  sits  on  your 
father's  head,  or  on  your  head,  or  on  mine,  when 
he  wants  us  to  listen." 

Edmund's  face  grew  thoughtful.  "But  you 
can't  get  away  till  he's  through,"  he  replied,  after 
weighing  the  question. 

That  argument  was  not  to  be  gainsaid.  Aunt 
Melissa  seized  the  melancholy  congregation  by  the 
sleeve  and  with  a  jerk  landed  him  blubbering 
on  his  feet.  "Why  do  you  let  little  Edmund  sit 
on  you,  —  a  great  boy  like  you,  three  times 
his  size  and  half  again  his  age?  Look  at  him; 
he's  only  a  weanling !" 

The  congregation,  spying  down  from  the  supe 
rior  ground  of  his  height  upon  his  tiny  kins 
man,  stood  nevertheless  as  the  Philistine  before 
David.  "But  Ned  is  so  masterful,"  he  said,  after 
a  snivel.  "And  he  kicks  me  in  my  stomick  with 
his  heels." 

Edmund  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pantaloons' 


io     A  NEW  ENGLAND    CHILDHOOD 

pockets.  "I  had  to  kick  him,"  he  interposed 
calmly,  "'cause  when  I  didn't,  he  roared  like 
a  bull,  and  I  was  pertending  that  I  was 
preaching,  and  I  was  pertending  that  he  was 
a  lost  soul." 

Aunt  Melissa  was  a  strong  Christian,  and  a 
Baptist.  She  too  looked  down  on  the  baby,  but 
not  unkindly.  "Don't  forget  that  you  have  a 
soul  of  your  own  to  save,  my  pretty  Immortal," 
she  said  gravely. 

Aunt  Melissa  never  forgot  Edmund's  soul. 
She  carried  like  a  load  the  remembrance  of 
those  who  did  not  believe  precisely  as  she  be 
lieved.  Her  purse  was  always  open  to  the  cause 
of  cannibals,  and  many  a  needy  relative  would 
have  done  well  to  have  been  a  pagan  on  the 
Ganges. 

Wandering  aimless  through  the  house  on  a 
rainy  interminable  morning,  shut  from  the  sight 
of  the  river,  and  with  silence  reigning  up-stairs 
and  down-stairs  and  in  my  lady's  chamber,  was 
dull  pastime  for  a  baby  of  three;  especially 
for  a  baby  who  has  been  put  into  breeches 
and  is  expected  to  behave  like  a  man.  Shut 


THE   UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY     n 

fast  inside  her  room,  Edmund's  mother  wrote 
poems,  undistracted  by  questioning  prattle, 
and  outside  the  locked  door,  Edmund  built 
block  houses  that  fell  endlessly.  The  solitari 
ness  and  the  dearth  quickened  his  wits  beyond 
his  years. 

"Mother,  I've  swallowed  a  pin!"  he  shouted, 
in  a  joy  that  betrayed  that  his  plight  was  imagi 
nary. 

No  answer. 

Would  nothing  terrify  his  dear  one  into  opening 
the  door ! 

The  baby  began  another  castle  and  again  it 
fell  as  flat  as  old  Sisera. 

Aunt  Melissa  passed  through  the  hallway, 
gloved  and  hooded.  Little  Edmund  waited  until 
she  was  out  of  hearing ;  then  dragging  at  the  door- 
latch  of  his  mother's  bedroom,  he  pressed  his  lips 
to  the  crack. 

"Muwer,  muvver,"  he  whispered  beguilingly 
to  his  ritual-devoted  mama,  "open  the  door 
quick.  Aunt  Melissa  is  going  to  take  me  to  a 
drefful  baptism  /" 

The  word  "baptism"  proved  a  Sesame;    the 


12      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

key  turned,  the  door  drew  back ;  and  Edmund, 
clutching  and  climbing,  held  his  adored  mother 
fast,  a  self -surrendered  prisoner  to  his  wiles. 

With  his  father  he  had  romped  boisterously 
during  their  brief  days  together,  albeit  the  two 
made  no  great  noise,  for  Papa  had  been  more 
guardful  than  Mama  herself  that  she  should 
not  be  disturbed.  His  playtime  with  his  father 
had  come  when  the  day's  work  was  over.  Up 
and  down  they  had  gone,  Papa  the  horse,  carry 
ing  his  little  lad  pickaback.  Papa  called  Edmund 
his  little  Clarence;  he  said  it  was  his  nom  de 
caresse  —  his  love-name.  Sometimes  they  talked 
together  soberly  like  old  people,  lying  full 
length  on  the  rug  in  the  firelight,  Edmund 
junior  with  his  elbows  pillowed  on  Edmund 
senior's  chest. 

"What  now?"  cried  his  father,  when  Edmund 
with  one  little  fist  grasped  in  the  other  fist  for  a 
pencil  traced  the  wrinkle  between  his  father's 
eyes. 

"A  scowl,"  said  Edmund. 

"That  is  not  a  scowl." 

"A  scowl,"  reiterated  Edmund. 


THE   UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY     13 

"No,"  persisted  his  father,   "it  is  a  line  of 


care." 


"Care,"  echoed  the  baby. 

"Care  is  love,  little  boy.  You  know  what 
love  is.  Papa  loves  Mama  very  much;  Papa 
loves  you,  little  son.  You  two,  —  his  wife,  his 
son,  —  are  dearer  to  him  than  all  the  world.  You 
have  seen  how  rough  the  wind  can  blow?  You 
have  felt  how  the  hoar  frost  bites?  Papa  is 
thinking  always  and  planning  always  that  no 
uncaring  blast  shall  smite  his  darlings  —  no  win 
try  want  come  nigh  their  dwelling.  Papa  is 
planning  how  to  make  it  always  summer  for 
them.  And  sometimes,  when  Papa  thinks  of  it, 
he  looks  thoughtful,  and  that  makes  the  line 
of  care.  When  you  are  a  man,  Clarence,  you 
may  have  wrinkles  just  as  Papa  has." 

Edmund  Clarence  pulled  his  brow  into  puckers. 

"Not  all  over  your  forehead!"  cried  his  father 
in  mock  dismay. 

Edmund  nodded.     He  would  not  be  outdone. 

"But  why  so  many?" 

"Why?"  echoed  the  baby,  and  stopped.  His 
thoughts  were  like  shy  birds  in  a  mist,  and  he 


i4      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

had  not  learned  to  call  them  to  him.  His  hands 
sprang  to  his  father's  cheeks.  "  I  love  you  —  love 
you/'  he  repeated,  so  like  his  mother!  "And  I 
love  muwer." 

"To  distraction?" 

"  Distwaction,"  repeated  the  child. 

And  there  the  matter  rested. 

It  seemed  to  Edmund  junior  that  whenever 
his  mother  was  not  writing  poetry,  she  was  tired 
and  wished  him  to  be  quiet;  and  when  he  was 
most  quiet,  she  fell  ill.  The  unbroken  silence 
during  her  illness,  and  the  keen  weeks  of  his 
father's  bitter  sickness  that  followed  her  conva 
lescence  made  him  older  than  ever  for  his  age. 
And  when  he  saw  his  mother,  his  gay,  irrepressibly 
joyous  mama,  shaken  with  sobs  and  clinging  to 
his  father  as  if  she  never  could  let  him  go,  child 
that  he  was,  he  felt  himself  a  man.  He  walked 
to  and  fro  through  his  play  sedately,  and  once 
when  the  stilly  night  was  startled  by  a  cry,  he 
leaned  from  his  unwatched  crib  and  whispered 
"Hush,  hush!"  as  if  he  were  the  nurse.  And 
when  his  father  walked  in  the  garden  once  more 
and  finding  him  silently  at  play  with  a  toy  boat, 


THE   UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY     15 

strained  his  son  to  him,  the  little  lad  caught  his 
breath  and  winked  hard.  Big  boys  like  him  did 
not  cry ;  mother  had  told  him,  and  mother  loved 
him  to  distraction  !  —  she  said  so  —  precisely  as 
he  loved  her. 

But  in  the  evening  when  he  lay  in  his  father's 
arms,  just  as  in  the  days  before  the  illness,  some 
thing  came  into  his  throat  that  choked  and  hurt 
him.  Yet  they  talked  for  all  that.  They  did 
not  have  to  play  that  Edmund  was  a  man.  They 
were  two  men  together  now,  —  the  father  in  the 
languor  of  helplessness  that  was  closing  in  around 
him;  the  son  in  the  unvexed  growth  that  was 
his.  Only  three  weeks  earlier,  and  Edmund 
had  dragged  at  his  father's  beard  and  beaten 
him  in  the  chest  with  his  vigorous  young  heels; 
and  now  the  little  boy's  eyes  fixed  on  his  father's 
eyes  broodingly,  and  the  restive  hands  lay  limp 
along  the  wasted  shoulders. 

"Big  boat,"  said  the  child  at  last.  Ah,  it 
was  the  thought  of  separation  that  stilled  the 
tireless  feet,  that  shadowed  the  ardent  eyes !  It 
was  the  voyage  that  the  father  was  to  make  in 
search  of  the  fountain  of  health ! 


16      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

The  father  held  him  closer. 

"Little  son,  there  was  a  man,  four  hundred 
years  ago,  who  sailed  from  his  home  and  all  that 
he  loved,  to  find  a  way  around  the  world.  And 
after  weary  months  of  sailing,  he  espied  a  new 
world  lying  close  against  the  horizon.  And  he 
praised  God.  That  man  was  Columbus,  and  the 
country  that  he  discovered  was  our  America. 
And  after  a  while  he  sailed  back  home  again  and 
brought  word  to  his  dear  ones  that  he  had  found 
a  better  country  than  their  country,  better  even 
than  their  fatherland.  Yet  perhaps  at  the  very 
first,  there  had  been  reasons  why  he  did  not  wish 
to  set  forth.  Perhaps  he  shrank.  Perhaps  the 
mist  through  which  he  peered  was  the  mist  of 
tears.  But  a  voice  in  his  heart  kept  crying : 
1  Sail  —  Sail ! '  and  that  voice  was  the  voice  of 
God.  Now  it  may  be  that  Papa  will  be  called  to 
go  away,  —  it  may  be  to  discover  a  better  coun 
try  for  his  loved  ones.  My  little  boy  will  not 
make  it  hard  for  me,  will  he  ?  —  by  shedding 
tears ;  or,  after  I  am  gone,  by  forgetting  to  be 
manly,  and  caring  for  Mama?" 

His  little  lad  slipped  from  his  knees,  then  in  a 


THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY     17 

moment  climbed  them  and  clung.  Bless  him 
in  his  innocency;  he  had  fetched  his  Sunday 
cap ! 

"Father!    Father!"  he  pleaded. 

"Little  son,  no  one  may  come  with  me.  The 
voyage  that  I  take,  every  man  must  take 
alone." 

Gloaming  closed  around  them.  The  fire-glow 
sank  unheeded. 

"It  may  be  that  somewhere  in  God's  great 
Unknown  waits  a  new,  an  undiscovered  world, 
—  a  house  not  made  by  hands,  eternal  in  the 
heavens.  You  cannot  understand  to-day,  but 
you  will  learn  to  know  hereafter." 

Silence  broken  only  by  a  sigh.  .  .  . 

The  little  hands  were  fast  around  the  father's 
neck.  The  little  cheek  was  close  against  his 
cheek,  and  between  their  lids  a  tear  was  stealing 
too  slowly  for  a  child's. 

"You  will  ever  be  tender  of  mother  —  and  lov 
ing?  You  will  never  leave  her  or  forsake  her? 
You  will  look  at  father's  picture,  and  when  you 
look,  you  will  remember  him  —  and  her?  Prom 
ise  father." 


i8     A  NEW   ENGLAND    CHILDHOOD 

A  little  hand  feeling  through  the  gloom  for  the 
father's  hand,  and  that  was  answer. 

"Edmund,  you  will  be  thoughtful,  obedient, 
a  good  boy.  Child !  —  son !  —  my  son  !  - 
whom  else  have  I  to  speak  to !  I  cannot  speak 
to  Mama;  it  breaks  my  heart  with  anguish  to 
see  tears  in  her  beautiful  eyes !  Edmund,  you 
are  my  eldest  son!" 

It  was  true !  In  the  chamber  overhead,  in 
Edmund's  cradle,  slept  another  little  lad,  Ed 
mund's  baby  brother,  Charles. 

At  sea,  on  the  fourth  day  of  December  of  the 
year  1835,  in  the  dusk  before  dawn,  Edmund 
Burke  Stedman,  little  Edmund's  father,  died  of 
quick  consumption  following  a  partial  recovery 
from  pneumonia  contracted  the  earlier  summer. 

It  may  be  that  the  mists  encircling  the  voyager's 
helpless  ship  of  life  lifted,  and  that  he  descried 
the  better  country  of  which  he  had  spoken, 
stretching  along  the  ultimate  horizon,  gracious 
and  true  and  constant,  —  the  Undiscovered  Coun 
try  of  God.  Certainly,  when  the  sailors  came 
to  look  upon  him  for  the  last  time,  so  vast  a 
peace  lay  on  his  brow  so  lightly  that  the  daystar 


THE   UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY     19 

itself  seemed  fatherless  and  yet  unfearful.  Solici 
tude  for  wife,  children,  home,  earth,  was  nothing 
to  him  who  lay  in  that  majestic  calm.  He  saw 
beyond  the  twin  mystery  of  birth  and  death,  and 
the  line  of  care  was  gone. 


Ill 

EDMUND'S  FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME 

THE  wide-stretching  room,  the  Sunday  severity 
and  oppressions  of  the  great  manor  house  in  New 
Jersey  to  which  his  mother  brought  him  after 
his  father's  death,  made  pictures  in  Edmund's 
memory.  The  house  was  set  amid  two  hundred 
acres,  through  which  a  brook  flowed,  with  cedar 
trees  for  guideposts  pointing  the  way  to  Plainfield 
a  mile  below  in  the  marshes.  It  was  called  Cedar 
Brook,  and  Elizabeth's  father  had  newly  bought 
it.  Each  night  and  morning  the  family  sat 
around  in  straight-backed  chairs,  and  Edmund's 
grandfather  Dodge,  —  a  tall,  massive  animal 
he  appeared  to  the  tiny  grandson,  —  read  the 
Scriptures.  On  Sabbaths  and  fast  days,  the 
household  arose  at  half  past  four,  and  the  patri 
arch  catechised  them,  not  overlooking  Edmund 
although  he  was  so  small. 


FIRST  LESSON   IN   RHYME          21 

The  morning  Scripture  portion  seemed  all  day 
long  to  Edmund,  it  was  so  long ;  and  the  nightly 
prayer  seemed  longer  than  a  thousand  nights. 
He  winked  and  nodded,  and  then  he  stared  to 
keep  awake;  and  then  he  nodded  again.  Some 
times,  at  prayers  in  the  morning,  his  foot  went  to 
sleep,  but  at  night  he  went  to  sleep  all  over.  And 
what  a  plight  he  was  in,  night  or  morning!  If 
he  stirred  ever  so  little,  his  grandfather's  eye 
lifted  from  the  Bible  and  traveled  over  the  tops 
of  his  gold-bowed  spectacles  with  so  uncompro 
mising  a  sternness  that  Edmund  was  instantly 
still,  blinking  like  a  star.  He  was  not  suffered 
to  sit  beside  his  darling  mother;  they  said  that 
her  fond  looks  spoiled  him.  The  "they"  were 
his  grandfather  and  his  great-aunt  and  some  other 
people  whom  he  could  not  tell  apart,  and  who 
were  equally  elderly  and  sedate.  So  he  sat  be 
tween  his  great-aunt  and  some  one  else  quite 
like  her,  and  no  sooner  did  his  grandfather  Dodge 
glance  the  little  boy's  way  than  his  great-aunt 
reached  out  and  tapped  Edmund  with  her  fore 
finger  rebukingly.  But  his  grandfather  was  al 
ways  the  first  to  catch  him  stirring. 


22      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Evening  prayers  did  not  come  till  nine  o'clock, 
and  nine  o'clock  seemed  midnight  to  the  child. 
His  strife  against  disgrace  was  terrible.  His  lids 
would  falter  and  fall  until  at  last  he  was  too 
heavy  with  sleep  to  fight  or  fear  and,  in  spite  of 
his  grandfather's  disinheriting  countenance  and 
his  great-aunt's  pokes,  he  sank  down  in  the  big 
chair,  and  would  have  lurched  head  foremost 
to  the  floor  if  the  servant,  at  a  sign  from  his 
grandmother,  had  not  lifted  him  by  the  arm  and 
led  him  off  to  bed. 

No  one  spoke  or  moved  when  grandfather  read 
to  himself,  even  from  the  newspaper.  When  he 
wished  to  read,  he  took  his  seat  beside  a  stand  on 
which  stood  two  candles  made  by  grandmother's 
own  hands;  then  grandmother  took  her  place 
at  the  farther  side  of  the  stand  and  mildly  knitted, 
casting  guardful  glances  through  the  room  to 
maintain  an  absolute  hush.  Her  needles  whis 
pered,  "Whist!  — Whist!  — Whist!"  The  logs 
as  big  as  trees  that  burned  on  the  hearth,  —  there 
was  no  other  fire,  —  dwindled  without  a  crackle. 

The  stiffness  and  silence  did  not  wear  upon  his 
mother.  At  prayers  she  looked  as  saintly  as  you 


FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME          23 

please,  but  once  in  the  orchard  she  shook  out  her 
pretty  curls  and  danced;  and  sometimes  she 
sang  in  the  household's  very  faces.  She  did  not 
care  about  the  gloom  one  bit.  And,  Oh !  to  see 
her !  Surely  she  was  beautiful ;  there  was  no 
doubt  about  her  beauty.  And  she  had  the  most 
fascinating  boxes  and  jewels  which  little  lads 
were  not  to  touch.  She  would  sit  before  her  table, 
—  showing  the  ancient  mirror  her  youthful  face 
and  making  ready  for  a  guest  at  dinner,  or  for 
nobody  at  all,  —  for  hours  together.  But  the 
hour  never  seemed  a  minute  long  to  Edmund 
when  he  was  watching  her,  and  not  so  much  as 
his  foot  went  to  sleep.  He  stood,  silent  with 
wonder,  and  adoring,  while  his  wistful  deep  eyes 
journeyed  now  from  the  face  in  the  glass  to  the 
face  at  his  side,  and  now  back  to  the  face  in  the 
glass.  First  there  was  marvelous  powder,  white 
like  snow,  that  lost  itself  on  her  white  shoulders. 
There  was  gold  dust  in  a  bottle  that  she  sifted 
over  her  hair.  There  were  multitudes  of  silks  in 
her  chests  that  were  just  like  her,  —  as  if  the 
merest  particles  of  herself  had  flecked  off  and 
been  captured.  And  over  everything  there  was 


24      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

a  fragrant  breath  like  the  fields  where  the  mowers 
go.  It  was  enchanting.  Edmund  could  not  be 
certain  whether  it  was  his  mother's  fingers  that 
made  her  gauds  so  sweet,  or  whether  it  was  the 
perfume  that  made  her  fingers  so  like  grasses. 
In  merriment,  she  dashed  a  drop  of  the  sweetest 
scent  of  all,  a  scent  that  was  in  a  bottle,  on  the 
tip  of  his  aquiline  little  nose,  and  at  night  he 
went  to  sleep,  sniffing  softly  and  per  tending  that 
Mama  was  in  bed  beside  him.  What  an  idea ! 
When  he  had  had  a  room  apart  from  her  ever 
since  —  as  he  said  —  he  was  a  little  boy ! 

Yes,  his  mama  was  very  beautiful.  He  used 
to  clamber  out  of  bed  and  steal  to  the  top  of  the 
stairway  and  look  down  to  see  her  when  there 
was  company.  Every  one  looked  at  her,  —  all 
the  guests,  —  and  when  she  spoke,  they  listened 
and  laughed.  One  day,  in  the  garden,  a  gentle 
man  took  him  on  his  knee  and  said:  "My  boy, 
your  mother  is  a  gifted  woman ! "  Edmund 
did  not  know  what  the  words  meant,  but  sudden 
tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  he  felt  so  proud  of 
her,  so  full  of  longing  to  run  and  take  her  in 
his  arms. 


FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME          25 

He  practiced  writing.  He  could  make  all  the 
letters  now  that  he  was  four,  and  he  could  spell 
words,  provided  the  words  were  "cat"  or  "dog" 
or  "God"  or  "cow";  but  he  could  read  more 
words  than  he  could  spell,  and  when  he  read 
them  to  himself,  he  did  not  read  what  they  truly 
were  but  made  stories  out  of  them,  —  stories  that 
did  not  have  an  end  or  a  beginning  and  that  ran 
along  of  themselves. 

But  he  had  to  take  good  care  to  say  the  words 
as  they  were  printed  when  he  stood  on  the  foot 
stool  at  his  grandfather's  knee  and  read  his  daily 
lesson.  If  he  mispronounced  so  much  as  a  syl 
lable,  a  broadside  on  his  ear  from  his  grand 
father's  hand  sent  him  flat  to  the  floor.  You 
may  be  sure  he  paid  heed  to  his  p's  and  q's. 
He  spelled  each  word  over  to  himself  as  fast  as 
he  could,  —  to  make  sure,  —  and  then  he  said  it 
slowly  and  regardfully,  glancing  forward  all  the 
while  to  the  next  word  to  see  if  it  was  one  he 
knew.  When  it  came  to  spelling  from  memory, 
some  of  the  simplest  looking  words  were  the 
most  difficult.  He  had  no  end  of  trouble  with 
"God."  "God"  used  to  get  mixed  up  in  his 


26      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

mind  with  "dog"  whenever  his  grandfather 
looked  at  him,  and  he  knew  beforehand  which 
ever  way  he  began  to  spell  it,  he  would  begin  it 
wrong.  "God"  was  truly  the  worst  word  of 
all.  "God"  was  more  vexatious  than  the  cate 
chism.  And  many  a  punishment  the  catechism 
cost  him ! 

Edmund  had  as  little  idea  of  what  rhyme  was 
as  he  had  of  the  meaning  of  the  catechism.  One 
afternoon,  he  came  upon  two  lines  clipped  from 
a  newspaper  and  pasted  to  an  outhouse  wall. 
He  spelled  them  out.  They  bewitched  him. 
Like  the  stories  that  he  read  out  of  his  head, 
they  went  of  themselves,  and  kept  coming  back 
without  his  trying  to  remember. 

The  first  line  was : 

"What  is  the  chief  end  of  man?"  the  words  of 
the  catechism ;  and  the  second : 

"To  keep  all  he  gets  and  to  get  all  he  can,"  an 
unauthorized  and  to  his  mind  an  improved 
version. 

At  the  hour  of  weekly  catechising,  Grandfather 
Dodge's  keen  eye  rested  upon  his  wee  grandson 
indulgently. 


FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME  27 

The  lad  is  but  a  witless  babe,  doubtless  the 
grown  man  thought,  I  will  bear  in  mind  that  he 
was  sent  to  bed  last  night  without  supper  because 
he  shouted  loudly  after  sundown;  I  will  give 
him  a  question  that  he  has  answered  on  many  a 
bygone  Sabbath  morning. 

"What  is  the  chief  end  of  man?"  said  the 
patriarch,  and  glanced  around  the  circle  mildly 
as  if  undecided  whom  to  ask. 

Instantly  Edmund's  eyes  glowed.  His  sensi 
tive,  small  nostrils  twitched. 

"Edmund,"  repeated  the  patriarch,  "what  is 
the  chief  end  of  man?" 

"To  keep  all  he  gets  and  to  get  all  he  can!" 
rang  out  in  the  child's  bright  treble. 

Astonishment  and  consternation  coursed  blood- 
like  through  his  grandfather's  temples.  His  smile 
hardened  into  stony  dismay.  This,  then,  was  the 
guileless  innocent !  His  heavy-browed  eye  turned 
from  the  offender  in  socks  to  Grandmother 
Dodge. 

"Elizabeth,"  he  said  painfully,  "Satan  hath 
entered  into  the  child  !" 

One  by  one  the  circle  dropped  away,  as  Ed- 


28      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

mund,  in  the  grasp  of  his  grandfather's  hand,  was 
led  from  the  room. 

Edmund  suspected  what  was  coming:  he  was 
going  to  be  locked  in  his  grandfather's  boot 
closet  under  the  stairway,  —  his  one  terror.  It 
was  a  black  hole  —  and  so  large !  It  yawned 
pathless  and  huge  as  a  dungeon.  And  Edmund 
had  told  himself  that  there  were  snakes  in  it  and 
bloodsuckers  and  holes  a  yard  long.  In  after 
years,  in  the  summer  of  1906,  when  little  Edmund 
himself  was  a  grandfather,  he  returned  to  Plain- 
field  to  look  at  his  childhood's  prison  and  was 
surprised  to  find  that  he  was  forced  to  stoop  to 
enter  it.  Perhaps  the  boot  closet  had  grown 
small,  while  he  had  been  growing  large !  I  have 
seen  houses  and  people  that  seem  to  grow 
small. 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  that  Sabbath  day, 
the  bolt  that  had  kept  Edmund  a  prisoner  was 
drawn  back.  No  word  was  spoken.  His  grand 
father  laid  him  across  his  knee.  Sobs  unre 
strained  and  childlike  throbbed  through  the 
lonely  walls,  but  they  were  not  Edmund's.  Ed 
mund  remembered  his  father  and  how  he  had 


FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME          29 

promised  him  to  be  thoughtful  for  his  mother, 
and  to  do  his  best  never  to  grieve  her.  It  was 
pretty  Elizabeth  who  was  sobbing  in  her  bed 
room,  —  sobbing  because  Grandfather  Dodge's 
hand  fell  so  heavily  upon  her  little  son.  But  not 
a  cry  escaped  Edmund.  Only  once,  under  the 
dire  pain  of  the  sharpest  stroke  of  all,  his  heel 
lifted,  and  would  you  believe  it  ?  —  gave  the  old 
gentleman's  spectacles  such  a  whack  that  they 
flew  from  his  nose  in  a  dozen  pieces ! 

Then  the  two,  grandfather  and  grandson,  arose 
to  their  feet.  They  looked  each  other  in  the  eye. 
Grandfather  Dodge's  look  said  as  plainly  as 
speech:  "I  trust  I  have  given  you  something, 
my  young  Sir,  to  remind  you  for  the  present  what 
is  the  chief  end  of  a  boy."  Edmund's  heaving 
chest  and  fast-closed  lips  said,  "You  haven't 
made  me  cry  yet!" 

And  here  ended  Edmund's  first  lesson  in  rhyme, 
and  here  it  began,  for  from  that  day  he  was  al 
ways  on  the  lookout  to  see  if  lines  matched,  and 
when  they  did  match,  he  spelled  them  out  to 
find  if  they  were  like  the  lines  that  he  had  been 
punished  for  repeating. 


30      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Edmund  lay  on  his  stomach,  the  forenoon 
after  his  whipping,  and  forgot  the  past,  staring 
at  the  pictures  in  the  family  Bible.  Each  wood 
cut  looked  as  big  to  him  as  a  Flemish  chest. 
He  had  lifted  the  book  down  for  himself,  and  was 
so  excited  over  the  chance  of  seeing  Adam  and 
Eve  that  he  failed  to  think  how  naughty  he  was 
to  touch  his  uncle's  property  without  asking.  He 
was  quite  comfortable  when  he  did  not  try  to  sit 
down. 

It  was  some  days  before  he  felt  like  running 
about  the  fields  again.  He  felt  unaccountably 
sore  all  over.  And  very  tired.  He  had  many  a 
stealthy  sight  of  Eve  and  Adam  —  and  each  time 
that  he  saw  them,  there  they  stood  without 
vesture,  gazing  woodenly  ahead,  although  the 
most  fearful  lions  strolled  around  them;  pan 
thers  too,  and  every  kind  of  ravenous  creature, 
and  in  particular  a  tiger  that  was  sharpening  its 
claws  on  a  tree  which  had  very  evidently  fallen 
to  the  earth  for  the  convenience  of  felines.  Every 
time  that  he  lifted  the  book  down  and  opened  to 
the  page,  he  expected  to  find  our  first  parents 
devoured.  Without  cavil,  Adam  and  Eve  were 


FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME          31 

more  daring  even  than  Daniel,  for  there  was  an 
angel  in  the  den  to  scare  the  lions,  —  Edmund 
had  not  been  able  to  discover  the  angel,  but  the 
Bible  said  that  the  angel  was  there,  —  arid, 
besides,  Daniel  wore  smalls. 

When  Edmund's  grandmother  came  upon  him, 
how  he  jumped  !  He  expected  another  whipping, 
but  she  looked  gently  down  and  murmured, 
"Pretty  Edmund!"  Her  conduct  was  most 
perplexing.  Often  he  was  naughty  when  it 
never  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  naughty; 
and  sometimes  when  he  surmised  that  he  was 
naughty,  he  was  treated  as  if  he  were  good. 
Altogether,  being  naughty  and  being  good  was  a 
bewildering  enigma.  He  was  never  sure  when 
reproof  might  fall.  He  tried  not  to  get  too  near 
his  elders,  since  they  had  bidden  him  to  keep 
from  under  foot;  yet,  inquisitive  and  loving, 
he  continued  to  follow  them  around  —  dallying 
half  an  ell  behind.  He  was  careful  of  his  dress 
and  very  proud  of  the  fact  that  he  had  ridden  in 
a  railway  train  when  he  came  to  Plainfield ;  he 
confided  to  his  mother  that  the  farm  hands 
called  him  the  "  wailway  woad  dandy." 


32      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

To  make  sure  that  he  was  kept  out  of  mischief 
he  was  posted  off  to  school,  and  not  long  after 
wards  he  was  taken  from  his  first  school  and  posted 
to  a  second.  He  did  not  study  much.  He  gazed 
around  and  amused  himself  pertending  to  be  study 
ing.  Neither  one  of  his  two  masters  punished 
him  in  the  ways  that  he  was  punished  at  home 
and,  not  understanding  that  he  was  being  pun 
ished  when  he  was  called  to  sit  at  the  teacher's 
side,  he  felt  affectionate  and  grateful,  and  not  a 
bit  ashamed. 

When  his  mother  folded  his  garments  in  a  tiny 
pack,  he  thought  it  might  be  that  he  had  been 
very  bad,  and  that  Grandfather  Dodge  was  going 
to  shut  him  up  again  in  the  boot  closet  and  this 
time  keep  him  there  so  long  that  his  clothes  would 
be  worn  out  like  the  Israelites'  shoes,  and  he 
would  need  some  others.  Edmund  looked  grave 
indeed,  and  his  mother  looked  grave.  Two  tears 
slipped  through  her  lashes,  and  a  tear  had 
splashed  her  cheek.  A  new  thought  struck 
Edmund.  She  had  folded  and  laid  aside  his 
father's  cloak  and  top  boots,  and  had  wept  the 
while. 


FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME          33 

"Mother,  am  I  going  away?" 

"Yes,  Edmund." 

A  long  pause.  His  shadowed  face  was  dis 
tressfully  inquiring. 

"Are  you  going  to  send  me  to  the  burying- 
ground,  Mother?"  he  at  length  asked. 

She  caught  him  up  and  kissed  him  a  hundred 
times;  kissed  his  hair  and  mouth  and  eyes, 
kissed  him  blind  and  breathless.  And  how  they 
laughed  —  they  two  !  No,  certainly  he  was  not 
going  to  be  taken  to  the  burying-ground !  And 
after  the  laughter,  they  had  a  romp  in  the  garden, 
such  a  romp  as  they  had  never  had  before.  And 
earnest  little  Charlie  pattered  after  them  and  fell 
prone  and,  forgetting  in  his  eagerness  to  be  up 
and  away  that  he  could  walk  as  well  as  anybody, 
the  blessed  babe  took  to  all  fours  and  scrambled 
over  the  turf  like  an  infant  angel  whose  wings 
are  scarce  unfolded. 

But  it  was  true  nevertheless  that  Edmund 
was  going  on  a  journey.  He  was  going  to  Nor 
wich  Town  in  Connecticut,  to  pay  his  uncle,  Dea 
con  James  Stedman,  a  visit  —  his  mother  said; 
and  she  told  him  that  there  were  many  kinsmen 


34      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

of  his  in  his  uncle's  house;  his  cousins  Charles 
and  Tom,  grown  lads  who  would  be  big  brothers 
to  him;  and  Ferdinand,  who  was  ten,  —  nearly 
twice  as  old  as  he  !  —  and  who  had  hair  not  unlike 
his  and  eyes  a  little  like  his  but  not  so  deep  a 
blue;  besides,  there  were  his  girl-cousins,  Mary, 
Jerusha,  and  gentle  Annie;  and  his  excellent 
Aunt  Abbie,  and  his  kind  Aunt  Eunice,  his 
Uncle  James's  wife ;  and  the  hired  man,  Jeremiah. 
There  were  brooks  at  Norwich  Town  and  fish 
in  the  brooks ;  there  were  trees  to  climb,  and  nuts 
to  gather ;  there  were  cows  and  dogs  and  horses. 
Mother  herself  had  lived  in  Norwich,  in  a 
square,  brown  house  with  great  elms  before  it, 
on  the  plain  at  a  place  called  Beanhill.  This 
was  once  upon  a  time  when  her  father,  his  Grand 
father  Dodge,  lost  much  money  and  retired  from 
New  York  City  till  he  should  have  rebuilt  his 
fortune.  So  Mother  knew  all  about  it,  and  she 
could  give  him  her  word  that  in  the  Stedman 
homestead  it  was  like  a  party  all  the  time  —  there 
were  so  many  folk.  And  to  a  little  lad,  the  geese 
and  pigs  and  horses  would  be  as  fine  as  a  county 
fair. 


FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME          35 

"And  now,  my  darling,"  said  his  mother, 
"there  are  two  thoughts  which  I  wish  you  to 
think  of  every  morning  and  every  night  and  all 
day  long.  It  is  Mother's  prayer  for  you  and 
her  hope  and  expectation  that  you  will  be  a  stu 
dent  and  a  scholar,  that  you  will  love  books  and 
all  that  is  beautiful,  that  you  will  be  a  poet.  But 
stronger  than  her  desire  that  you  should  be  a 
poet  is  her  desire  that  you  should  be  a  gentleman. 
When  you  are  grown  a  little  older,  and  perhaps 
an  hour  comes  when  you  must  choose  between 
being  courteous  and  considerate,  and  pursuing 
uninterrupted  the  book  which  you  are  reading  or 
the  task  that  you  are  at  work  upon,  lay  aside 
self  and  selfish  aims;  be  a  gentleman  and  gra 
cious.  Noblesse  oblige  shall  be  your  motto. 
Edmund,  say  Noblesse  oblige" 

"No  bless—" 

"Oblige—" 

"O-bleege,"  repeated  Edmund. 

" Noblesse  oblige  means  all  that  Mother  is  tell 
ing  you.  Think  first  of  others.  When  you  have 
given  your  word,  keep  it.  Place  service  before 
fame ;  honor  before  life ;  in  everything  be  kind. 


36      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Such  a  gentleman  was  your  father;  be  the  son  of 
that  gentleman.  And  if  you  can  follow  too  in 
the  paths  of  your  mother,  love  the  beautiful  and 
pursue  it. 

"  Brush  your  teeth  every  morning ;  a  clean 
mouth  means  a  clean  heart.  Read  what  the 
world  calls  literature,  even  if  you  cannot  under 
stand  it ;  and  when  you  cannot  understand  the 
meaning  of  a  passage,  learn  it  by  rote,  and  by 
the  tune  that  you  have  learned  it,  God  will 
have  told  you  what  it  means.  When  you  play, 
play  with  all  your  might ;  and  when  you  work, 
work  with  all  your  soul.  Now  what  is  it  that 
Mother  has  been  saying  to  you,  my  son?" 

"I  must  be  a  gentleman,"  said  Edmund 
sturdily. 

"And  what  else?"  She  restrained  him  by 
holding  fast  his  busy  hands. 

"Imustwead." 

"Read,"  said  Mother  in  correction. 

"R-read,"  repeated  Edmund  dutifully. 

"Read  what?" 

But  Edmund  was  eager  to  be  gone  to  Norwich. 
He  was  ready  to  start  at  once  —  just  as  soon  as 


FIRST  LESSON  IN  RHYME          37 

he  could  crowd  into  his  pocket  the  bladeless  jack- 
knife  which  was  his  dearest  pride.  He  could  not 
wait  for  the  hour  to  come  which  had  been  fixed 
upon  for  the  journey ;  he  could  not  wait  — • 
until  he  learned  that  his  mother  was  not  going 
too.  Then  he  began  to  have  doubts,  and  his 
babyhood  look  of  wistful  questioning  returned 
to  trouble  the  deep  pools  of  his  eyes.  And  at  the 
last,  it  took  considerable  coaxing  on  his  mother's 
part,  and  a  peremptory  command  from  Grand 
father  Dodge  to  prevent  him  from  climbing  out 
the  coach  window.  But  the  stage  driver,  a  good 
sort  of  man,  soon  took  the  lad  to  sit  beside  him 
and  going  up  the  hill  asked  him  if  he  would  kindly 
hold  the  reins;  and  Edmund  drove  the  horses 
and  nodded  like  an  old  stager  to  passers  along 
the  route  who  doffed  to  him  and  smiled. 

Off  at  five  years  old,  and  the  world  before  him 
—  on  a  Thursday  of  the  summer  of  1839! 


IV 

A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS 

RIDING  in  a  stagecoach  was~  nothing  short  of 
traveling  in  a  tavern  on  wheels.  Once  upon  a 
time  Edmund  had  been  inside  a  tavern  with  his 
grandfather  Dodge,  so  he  knew  all  about  taverns. 
Wayfarers  were  continually  entering  the  stage 
and  leaving  it.  The  door  was  on  the  swing 
every  time  that  there  was  a  lull.  But  instead  of 
a  glass  of  ale,  or  a  night's  lodging,  or  a  rasher  of 
bacon  that  the  traveler  paid  for,  it  was  for  an 
hour's  lift  or  his  passage  to  the  next  town.  These 
chance  passengers  Edmund  looked  upon  as 
transients;  they  were  the  one-night  lodgers  who 
sit  around  a  tavern  hearth  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  boarding  guests;  they  were  the  idlers  who 
loiter  around  the  door  and  are  glad  enough  to 
step  across  the  threshold  for  a  minute's  cheer  and 


A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS  39 

for  protection  from  the  elements.  They  lent  a 
diversion  to  the  journey,  but  he  did  not  consider 
them  personages  of  importance  —  like  himself. 
He  was  a  through  passenger,  a  person  of  conse 
quence,  a  traveler  whose  fare  meant  a  good  deal 
to  the  company ;  he  saw  at  once  that  he  was  not 
expected  to  give  place  or  discommode  himself 
when  a  chance  traveler  hove  through  the  coach 
door,  or  a  saunterer  held  up  the  stage  with  the 
caU  "Hey!"  and  the  query,  "All  full  inside?" 

The  farther  little  Edmund  went,  the  bigger 
the  world  grew  and  the  tinier  he.  Even  the  stage, 
that  had  seemed  as  roomy  as  a  village  when  he 
first  made  its  acquaintance,  became  merely  one 
of  countless  stages  when  he  reached  his  first  stop 
ping-place,  and  although  it  rattled  and  banged 
courageously  against  the  cobble  stones,  and  made 
as  much  of  itself  as  it  could,  it  was  lost  in  the  mul 
titude  of  stage-wagons,  drags,  carts,  and  drays 
that  closed  in  behind  it  and  before  it.  Confusion 
piled  upon  confusion ;  noise  upon  noise ;  bigness 
upon  bigness. 

Whichever  way  Edmund  turned,  there  were 
strangers.  Strangers  filled  the  streets.  He  would 


40      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

not  have  believed  there  were  so  many  people  in 
the  world  whom  he  did  not  know.  Presently 
strangers  lifted  him  down  from  the  stage.  He 
rode  in  a  railroad  coach;  then  a  stranger  helped 
him  into  a  horse  car  and  told  him  he  was  in 
New  York  City.  By  nightfall,  he  had  reached 
Brooklyn  where  he  was  to  sup  and  sleep,  and 
other  strangers  came  down  a  flight  of  steps  to 
greet  him.  They  said,  as  if  they  had  always 
known  him,  "Oh,  this  is  little  Edmund!"  They 
were  remarkably  well  informed.  He  could  not 
tell  who  they  were,  and  he  would  have  felt  abashed 
at  his  shortcomings,  if  he  had  not  been  stunned 
by  the  emptiness  of  it  all.  He  seemed  another 
little  boy  from  the  little  boy  who  had  romped  a 
while  back  with  his  mother  and  talked  so  confi 
dently. 

Then  came  another  spell  of  traveling  in  a  coach, 
but  the  second  day  was  so  bewildering  that 
after  it  was  over  he  could  remember  it  no  more 
than  he  could  remember  the  coming  of  his  first 
tooth. 

Following  the  second  day's  journey,  he  put  up 
in  Hartford  where  also  the  people  seemed  to 


A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS  41 

have  heard  of  him.  A  noble,  gray  haired  gentle 
man  said,  "Edmund,  I  am  your  grandfather 
Stedman."  Edmund  said,  "I  used  to  live  in 
Hartford  —  when  I  was  a  young  child. "  And 
his  grandfather  replied,  "Oh,  yes,  I  know." 
So  Edmund  was  silent,  since  his  grandfather 
appeared  to  know  even  more  than  his  words 
disclosed. 

The  world  now  seemed  running  past  him,  and 
he  alone  stood  still.  Again  he  was  in  a  stage, 
seated  inside  —  he  was  too  dazed  to  care  now 
about  the  horses ;  he  was  seated  beside  a  gentle 
man  who  had  him  in  charge.  Perhaps  the  gentle 
man  had  had  him  in  charge  all  the  way.  Ed 
mund  could  not  tell ;  he  could  not  remember  that 
any  one  had  had  him  in  charge  until  then. 

"Mr.  Tracy/'  said  the  driver,  pulling  aside  the 
curtain  to  look  behind  him  into  the  coach  at 
this  gentleman,  "the  child  is  pretty  young,  and 
kinder  peaked  looking,  although  he  is  so  pert. 
But  them  fragilous  ones  sometimes  turn  out  as 
tough  as  biled  owl!" 

"Who  is  pretty  young?"  inquired  Edmund. 

Then  both  the  men  laughed. 


42      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"Your  wits  aren't  asleep,  Buddie,"  replied  the 
driver. 

"He's  tired  to  death,"  said  the  gentleman  who 
was  called  Mr.  Tracy,  "or  he  wouldn't  be  this 
quiet  —  not  by  the  accounts  I've  heard  of  him." 

The  driver  twisted  his  reins  around  the  whip- 
stock.  The  stage  was  wandering  up  a  hill. 
There  was  little  doing. 

"Is  that  Norwich?"  questioned  Edmund,  as 
the  road  crept  out  from  a  forest. 

"Dear,  no!"  said  Mr.  Tracy,  rousing  from  a 
nap.  "Why,  bless  me,  it's  Colchester  steeple! 
It  can't  be  noonday!" 

"It's  past  noonday,"  cried  the  driver,  cracking 
his  whip  and  squinting  at  the  sun.  "And  it's 
high  tune  we  were  in  the  town.  Lor',  I've  been 
drowsing!" 

;  Trees,  fences,  houses  whirled  by  as  if  on  run 
ners;  trees  whisked  past  the  windows  as  fast  as 
palings  on  a  fence ;  the  driver  kept  his  whip 
cracking  to  make  up  for  the  time  that  he  had  lost 
wool-gathering. 

They  baited  at  Colchester  —  ten  minutes. 
Edmund,  little  five-year-old,  thrust  his  hands 


A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS  43 

into  his  pockets  and  took  a  turn  around  the 
tavern  yard  like  the  rest  of  the  men.  Then  off 
down  the  road  with  crack  of  the  whip,  and  a 
Hurrah!  The  sun  dropped  lower. 

Edmund  was  jolted  to  and  fro  as  if  he  were  a 
baby  again  and  was  once  more  in  the  arms  of 
comfortable  Susan.  He  fell  asleep,  and  each  time 
that  he  fell  asleep,  he  woke  up  with  a  start  and 
found  a  new  place  out  of  doors.  The  opening  of 
a  turnpike  gate  could  hardly  keep  his  lids  alert. 
Cottage  windows,  lit  by  gold  and  rosy  bright 
ness,  blinked  and  winked  at  him. 

"Is  this  my  Uncle  James's  house?"  asked 
Edmund,  when  he  could  gather  his  wits  together. 
The  stage  had  come  to  a  full  stop,  and  Mr.  Tracy 
was  lifting  him  down. 

"No,  this  is  my  house,"  said  Mr.  Tracy. 
"Your  uncle  lives  three  quarters  of  a  mile  farther 
down  the  road.  But  we  will  not  be  able  to  make 
the  distance  before  sundown,  so  I  shall  have  to 
take  you  in  to  spend  the  Sabbath  with  Mrs. 
Tracy  and  me.  I  never  travel  on  Sunday;  and 
if  I  were  willing  to  travel  on  Sunday,  the  Judge, 
your  uncle,  would  not  suffer  it." 


44      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Edmund  was  numb  with  weariness.  He  stum 
bled  between  the  guiding  borders  of  friendly  box 
to  the  front  stoop,  and  was  soon  asleep  on  Mr. 
Tracy's  sofa.  Of  his  Sabbath  spent  in  Mr.  Tracy's 
family  he  remembered  no  more  than  he  remem 
bered  of  his  sojourn  in  New  York.  When  the 
Sabbath  was  over,  two  young  people  came  in  a 
buggy  for  him.  Mr.  Tracy  told  him  that  they 
were  his  cousins,  Tom  and  Annie.  Edmund 
did  not  know  who  they  were  until  he  was  told ; 
indeed  he  had  found  no  one  anywhere  so  ignorant 
as  he. 

But  Annie  knew  him,  and  she  laughed  prettily, 
and  kissed  him.  She  had  the  gentlest,  most 
inviting  smile.  She  had  a  sweet  voice  as  well, 
and  a  firm,  yet  tender  way  of  speaking  that  made 
Edmund  quite  content  to  be  standing  by  her 
side.  When  the  three,  big  Tom,  little  Annie, 
and  he,  were  settled  in  the  buggy,  Annie  put  her 
arm  around  him,  and  whispered  to  him  that  she 
was  so  in  fear  of  falling  out,  Tom  drove  like 
lickety-split,  and  she  asked  him  if  he  minded  if 
she  held  on  to  him  for  safety.  Edmund  told  her 
that  he  did  not  mind  at  all. 


A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS  45 

Annie's  eyes  were  the  softest  gray,  and  she 
had  round  teeth  strewn  between  her  lips  like 
dew  between  the  petals  of  a  rosebud.  However 
slightly  she  smiled,  the  pretty  teeth  seemed  to 
smile  too.  She  was  tanned  from  running  bare 
headed  in  the  wind  and  sun;  and  as  they  drove 
along  —  lickety-split !  —  the  hair  around  her  face 
lifted  and  fell  as  if  it  were  out  of  breath  with 
the  pleasure  of  running  on  the  keen  air ;  her  hair 
was  neither  curly  like  his  mother's  nor  yet  straight ; 
it  had  a  docile  look  as  if  it  would  lie  whatever 
way  she  chose.  But  Tom  was  a  hearty  fellow, 
a  typical  young  squire. 

As  they  dashed  past  the  Green  all  the  girls 
cried  after  Tom,  but  he  took  it  good-naturedly. 
He  was  aware  that  he  was  considered  a  great 
catch,  and  was  neither  conceited  over  it  nor  yet 
self-conscious.  He  was  bluff,  broad-shouldered 
and  jovial,  ready  to  kiss  all  the  girls  in  the  town 
ship,  and  in  a  dozen  townships.  And  he  had 
kissed  all  the  girls,  first  and  last,  all  save  quiet 
Mary  Hyde,  so  Jerry  the  hired  man  told  Edmund, 
when  he  and  Edmund  were  getting  acquainted, 
not  many  hours  later.  Tom  was  ready  to  do 


46      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

errands  for  the  neighborhood ;  to  break  colts  for 
the  timid ;  he  was  out  and  away  at  three  o'clock 
of  a  morning  to  follow  the  hounds,  and  abroad 
till  an  hour  after  curfew  so  long  as  he  had  a 
job  that  kept  him  stirring;  else  he  would  have 
fallen  to  sleep  in  spite  of  himself  and  snored  as 
lustily  as  a  man  in  his  prime. 

"There's  Cousin  Lucrece  now!"  exclaimed 
Tom,  pointing  with  his  whip. 

A  house  stood  where  the  road  turned,  shingled 
all-of-a-piece ;  it  was  the  gray  of  a  gray  sky  on  a 
midsummer  day,  and  was  set  in  a  wilderness  of 
old-fashioned  flowers,  on  a  knoll  of  green  that 
dropped  down  the  hollow  into  the  brook  which 
Tom  had  just  crossed. 

"Is  that  your  house?"  inquired  Edmund. 
His  uncle's  house  was  beginning  to  seem  as  far 
off  as  the  pot  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow. 

"That  ramshackled,  crazy  old  patch!"  cried 
Tom.  "No,  indeed!  That's  Betty  Darben's 
house,  bless  my  bonnet !  —  we  keep  Cousin  Lu 
crece  out  of  the  workhouse,  and  Cousin  Lucrece 
keeps  Betty  out.  They're  both  as  queer  as 
Dick's  hatband!" 


A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS  47 

Edmund  did  not  know  who  Dick  was,  but  held 
his  peace.  He  did  not  like  to  appear  an  ignoramus 
before  his  stalwart  cousin.  "I  think  the  garden 
is  real  pretty,"  he  commented,  surveying  the  fra 
grant  tangle  from  under  his  long  lashes. 

"I  think  so  too,"  cried  Annie,  smiling  down  on 
him. 

"Are  we  going  to  bait  here?"  Edmund  asked 
the  instant  after.  The  mare  of  her  own  accord 
had  turned  into  a  sort  of  courtyard  that  ran  along 
the  road,  opposite  Betty  Darben's.  At  the  end 
of  the  courtyard  toward  Betty's  was  a  building 
like  a  shop,  set  in  front  of  a  goodly  barn ;  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  courtyard  was  a  large,  many- 
windowed,  many-chimneyed  house,  and  connect 
ing  the  house  and  barn  stretched  a  company  of 
united  outhouses,  one  and  a  half  story  buildings 
studded  with  windows  and  doors.  The  whole 
group  was  painted  and  kept  up  like  one  house. 
It  was  as  large  or  larger  than  any  inn  Edmund 
had  yet  visited. 

"This  is  home  !"  said  Annie. 

"I  did  not  know  it,"  observed  Edmund. 

"You   cherub!"    Annie   exclaimed,    and   then 


48      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

leaning  forward  called  lightly,  "Father,  Father, 
little  Ned  is  here!" 

The  shop  door  opened,  and  an  unkempt  fellow 
in  blue  homespun  caked  with  mire,  and  with  his 
brawny  throat  bare,  shambled  into  the  yard. 

"Jerry,  this  is  Edmund!"  announced  Annie. 

"I  know  it,"  replied  Jerry  laconically,  and 
began  unharnessing  the  mare. 

Even  Jerry,  the  man-of-all-work,  knew  him ! 

Then  down  the  kitchen  steps  came  a  boy  of 
twelve,  and  after  him,  Aunt  Eunice,  and  behind 
Aunt  Eunice,  Aunt  Abby,  and  then  another  lad, 
and  a  young  lady,  and  another,  and  a  farmhand. 
Soon  there  were  as  many  people  in  the  court 
yard  as  there  had  been  in  the  stage.  Tom 
sprang  out  of  the  buggy;  he  scarcely  touched 
Annie  by  one  hand,  and  presto !  she  was  on  the 
ground,  holding  up  her  lithe,  slight  arms  to 
Edmund,  and  smiling  on  him  still  with  her 
inviting  smile. 

"Annie,  put  that  child  down!  It  will  never 
do  to  make  a  baby  of  him !"  cried  Aunt  Abby. 

Annie  put  Edmund  down,  but  she  kept  his  hand 
in  hers. 


A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS  49 

"Annie,"  said  Aunt  Abby  again,  "run  in  and 
look  to  the  bread ;  and  Tom,  your  father  wishes 
you  to  do  some  copying  for  him  just  as  soon  as 
you  can.  Edmund,  I  am  your  Aunt  Abby,  your 
Uncle  James's  wife's  sister,  your  Uncle  James's 
sister-in-law.  Your  Aunt  Eunice  —  this  is  your 
Aunt  Eunice  —  will  show  you  to  your  room. 
The  rest  of  your  cousins  will  be  home  in  a 
while,  and  one  of  them  will  take  you  around 
the  grounds.  And  of  course  you  shall  go  along 
to  school  with  them.  You  must  be  up  and 
learning." 

Edmund  was  confounded  by  his  excess  of  rela 
tives.  He  had  kept  his  head  until  it  came  to 
his  Uncle  James's  wife's  sister  !  —  at  that  point 
his  wits  seemed  to  topple  over  like  a  spun-out 
top. 

Already  he  had  forgotten  which  of  the  ladies 
was  his  excellent  Aunt  Eunice  who  was  to  show 
him  to  his  room.  It  was  distressing.  Surrounded 
by  relatives,  he  took  his  way  over  the  granite 
stepping-stones  to  the  door.  In  the  doorway,  he 
was  met  by  a  portly,  keen-eyed  gentleman  in 
fleckless  black. 


50      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

As  the  gentleman  did  not  speak,  Edmund  ex 
tended  his  hand.  "I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  he 
said  by  way  of  salutation. 

"The  child  has  his  father's  ways,  but  he  has 
the  Stuart  looks,"  said  the  gentleman,  while  his 
eye  glanced  over  Edmund's  head  to  the  ladies. 
Then  he  engulfed  Edmund's  hand  and  wrist  in 
his  calm  hand.  " Edmund,"  he  replied,  "I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  you  too  if  as  I  trust  you  grow  to  be 
a  good  boy  and  strive  to  improve  your  time." 

Edmund's  eyes  followed  a  strand  of  blue  that 
ran  in  and  out  of  the  homemade  carpet.  His 
mother's  eyes  were  blue. 

"He  seems  to  be  a  very  quiet  child,"  commented 
Aunt  Eunice. 

"Quiet  for  a  boy,"  added  Aunt  Abby. 

Edmund  had  never  before  heard  himself  called 
a  quiet  little  boy.  But  he  did  not  heed  the  sur 
prising  words ;  he  was  gazing  toward  the  kitchen 
door.  The  door  stood  ajar  and  half  disclosed  a 
pump  and  sink.  He  looked  up  at  his  stately, 
magisterially-f rocked  uncle  as  if  he  were  pleading 
his  own  case.  Then  his  eyes  fell  to  the  strand  of 
blue.  He  was  gathering  courage. 


A  TAVERN  ON  WHEELS  51 

"May  I  brush  my  teeth,  please?"  he  asked 
swiftly.  "I  am  very  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but 
you  see  I  promised  my  mother  that  I  would  brush 
them  every  morning,  and  I  haven't  done  it  yet!" 

Instantly  from  the  kitchen  rang  Annie's  laughter 
and  her  heartening  call.  "Of  course  you  may 
brush  them ;  you  just  come  out  here  to  me." 


V 

THE  HURRYING  WORLD 

DURING  the  whole  of  the  first  year  in  Norwich 
Town,  it  seemed  to  little  Edmund  as  if  he  were 
still  in  the  stagecoach,  —  traveling  —  traveling,  — 
so  continuous  were  the  new  scenes,  new  people, 
new  ways.  Not  only  were  there  his  relatives  in 
the  Stedman  homestead,  but  there  were  kins 
men  all  around  town,  and  no  sooner  did  he  grow 
wonted  to  one  group  than  a  fresh  clan,  with  half 
familiar  features,  mingled  among  the  faces  that 
he  knew,  and  there  he  was  again !  —  unable  to 
tell  Cousin  Lucrece  from  somebody's  else  Cousin 
Lucre tia,  and  with  the  wayside  loafers  laughing 
at  him  because  when  Tom  called  "  Good  morning, 
uncle !"  to  old  John,  the  wood  chopper,  he  called 
"Good  morning,  Uncle  John!'' 

Folk  were  coming  and  going  at  his  uncle's 
house.  Folk  were  coming  and  going  along  the 


THE  HURRYING  WORLD  53 

village  streets.  Folk  were  coming  and  going 
even  at  the  burying-ground,  while  he  stood  idly, 
but  never  now  surprised. 

He  made  the  remark  to  Deacon  Stedman  that 
the  burying-ground  was  very  convenient !  All 
the  gardens  behind  the  houses  ran  down  to  the 
burying-ground.  Between  the  houses  were  more 
gardens,  and  if  he  wandered  through  a  gate  to 
peer  at  the  flowers,  or  to  sniff  at  a  hyacinth  on  a 
window  ledge,  whether  he  lifted  his  eyes  or  let 
them  fall,  there  were  the  soft  gray  stones  with 
the  quiet  sunlight  brightening  them,  and  the 
mounds  that  made  a  daisied  stairway  down  the 
slope  —  that  silent  slope  where  baby  feet  so  often 
stumbled  and  where  the  bravest  man,  however 
dauntless,  gave  up  the  fight  at  last  and,  lying  down, 
let  Nature  have  her  will  of  him. 

If  Edmund  followed  the  brook,  he  came  to 
the  burying-ground.  If  he  lost  his  way,  he  found 
it  by  going  into  the  burying-ground.  The  brook 
and  the  burying-ground  —  they  were  his  friends. 
They  were  always  the  same,  and  yet  never  the 
same. 

He  did  not  puzzle  it  out.     He  lay  on  the  stone 


54      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

footbridge  in  the  summer,  watching  a  trout  that 
was  two  inches  long.  He  trudged  along  the  mir- 
rory  path  of  crested  ice  in  winter,  while  the  brook 
purled  and  sang  to  him  —  all  frozen  save  its  voice  ! 
The  brook  and  the  burying-ground  were  his  friends, 
however  the  season  disguised  them.  If  it  rained 
too  hard,  he  could  creep  under  Frances  Whiting's 
gravestone  that  stood  on  six  legs  like  a  table,  or 
under  the  twin  roofs  of  the  Halsteads',  and  make 
believe  that  he  was  in  a  house  of  his  own.  When 
spring  lay  hazelike  on  the  hillside,  he  sat  on  an 
out-of-the-way,  blossoming  mound  and  practised 
mumble  ty-peg  with  his  knife  that  did  not  have  a 
blade.  Or  he  chased  a  particular  red  squirrel, 
scampering  and  scrambling  over  hillocks  and 
leaf-filled  shallows,  while  Master  Squirrel  leaped 
merrily  along  the  cypresses  toward  neighbor 
Spalding's  orchard. 

Sometimes  the  big  boys  came  on  a  Saturday 
half-holiday  and  sat  in  a  circle  under  the  willow 
beside  the  Huntington  sepulchre,  and  Edmund 
in  the  midst  of  them.  The  stories  you  have 
read  of  Captain  Kidd  are  nothing  to  the  stories 
they  told  of  the  doings  in  the  graveyard,  while 


THE  HURRYING  WORLD  55 

Edmund,  wide-eyed,  listened.  The  tigers  in  the 
bower  of  Eden  were  agreeable  messmates  in  com 
parison  with  the  sheeted  dead  who  left  the  bury- 
ing-ground  tenantless  whenever  their  spirit 
moved  them.  Such  ghosts  as  there  were  at 
Norwich  Town  were  enough  to  unwring  the 
withers  of  the  parson  himself.  Sometimes  too 
the  boys  glanced  at  him  and  winked  at  one  an 
other,  and  then  their  accounts  waxed  intimate 
beyond  belief  —  to  frighten  little  Edmund  into 
running  away,  or  into  a  fit  of  terror.  But  he 
stood  his  ground,  munching  a  wisp  of  grass 
after  the  manner  of  the  loungers  in  Fuller's 
store,  and  thriftless  of  the  throbbing  heart  that 
beat  against  his  pinafore  as  if  with  pinions;  and 
having  learned  to  spit,  he  spat  right  manfully. 
And  neither  was  he  much  afraid,  being  of  too 
fine  a  mettle,  as  you  shall  hear  a  little  later  on. 

The  ghosts  also  were  like  wayfarers  along  the 
highway  of  the  sixth  summer  of  his  life.  In 
the  evening  they  were  around  him;  but  in  the 
morning  they  were  gone  —  gone  like  Betty 
Darben,  who  when  he  went  to  school,  he  saw 
hanged  in  her  window,  with  her  blackened  face 


56      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

settling  against  the  panes.  In  the  morning  she 
was  there,  but  at  noontime,  when  he  ran  out  of 
his  way  to  have  another  look  at  her,  nothing 
was  to  be  seen  except  an  old  woman  who  stood 
in  the  doorway  and,  plucking  him  by  the  sleeve, 
asked  him  if  he  would  like  to  go  with  her  and  see 
the  corpse.  If  gentle  Annie  had  asked  him  to 
go  anywhere,  he  would  have  gone ;  but  he  did  not 
like  the  old  woman,  so  he  said,  "No  —  I  thank 
you/'  and  sauntered  off,  with  the  air  of  a  youth 
who  can  see  a  corpse  any  day  that  he  pleases. 
After  he  passed  the  house,  he  began  to  feel  that 
he  had  been  impolite.  His  mother  had  told  him 
that  he  must  receive  graciously  whatever  was 
offered  him;  she  had  told  him,  "Gently  takes  the 
gentleman  what  oft  the  clown  will  scorn"  He  had 
heard  her  say  to  one  who  brought  her  roses,  "I 
shall  never  see  a  rose  that  I  will  not  remember 
you."  He  went  back  to  the  doorway.  "You 
are  very  kind,"  he  said ;  "  I  thank  you  very  much. 
I  shall  never  see  a  corpse  that  I  will  not  think  of 
you!" 

But  the  big  boys  frightened  themselves.    They 
started  up  in  alarm  if  a  broken  bough  sighed  to 


THE  HURRYING  WORLD  57 

its  fellow ;  and  when  a  loosened  plank  in  the  sep 
ulchre  door  was  lifted  by  the  fingers  of  the  wind, 
their  faces  became  one  piece  with  Elijah  Leach's 
white  marble  headstone ;  and  Joe  Sterry  spied 
behind  him  fearfully,  —  just  as  though  the  hand 
of  a  dead  Huntington  had  stirred  that  creaking 
plank. 

"I'm  not  scart,  Tom  Harland!"  Joe  Sterry 
cried  before  he  was  accused. 

"Well,  if  you  aren't  scart,  I  dare  you  to  go  in 
to  the  vault  and  look  General  Jed  in  the  eye," 
Tom  Harland  retorted,  glad  to  cover  his  own 
confusion. 

"When  I  feel  like  going  in,  I'll  go  in,  without 
being  dast  by  you  or  anybody  like  you,"  Joe 
answered  grandly ;  and  Tom,  followed  by  the  whole 
quaking  pack  of  them,  betook  himself  across- 
lots  home. 

They  did  not  dare  little  Edmund  to  make  the 
round  of  those  ancient  coffins  whose  lids  were 
reputed  to  be  fallen  in.  Edmund  was  less  to 
them  than  one  of  themselves;  he  was  their 
junior. 

All  of  each  week  day,  save  Saturday  afternoon, 


58      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

Edmund  went  to  a  dame's  school  kept  by  Mrs. 
Lathrop,  —  not  much  to  his  mortification,  since 
at  the  time  that  he  entered  it  he  did  not  know 
what  a  dame  was.  Mrs.  Lathrop 's  house  was  the 
second  from  the  corner  west  from  the  Ladies 
Huntington,  and  nearly  opposite  the  Burying- 
ground  Lane.  School  was  held  in  the  north  front 
room ;  the  south  back  room  was  the  kitchen,  and 
the  kitchen  served  as  a  recess  ground  in  bad 
weather.  It  was  at  Mrs.  Lathrop's  that  his  shame 
at  having  to  wear  a  pinafore  began.  Aunt  Abby 
provided  the  pinafore  to  spare  the  wear  on  his 
breeches.  At  first  he  was  rather  proud  of  his 
pinafore,  and  he  lifted  it  grandly  like  the  skirt 
of  a  coat  when  he  sat  down ;  but  after  a  week  at 
school,  he  felt  that  he  was  a  girl  in  it.  Often 
he  took  it  off  on  his  way  to  school  and  hid  it 
in  the  Burying-ground  Lane,  and  on  his  home 
ward  way  was  forced  to  put  it  on  hindside 
foremost,  since  only  so  could  he  button  it. 
He  was  a  funny  little  apparition  when  he 
came  forth  into  the  sunlight  after  one  of 
these  labors  and  strolled  nonchalantly  past 
the  Spalding  house,  with  his  elbows  crooked 


THE  HURRYING  WORLD  59 

behind  him  to  accommodate  the  set  of  his 
sleeves. 

But  it  was  pleasant  going  to  school  to  Mrs. 
Lathrop.  From  the  kitchen  drifted  whiffs  of 
Shrewsbury  drops  a-baking.  Mrs.  Lathrop's 
hands  were  often  as  mealy  as  a  miller's,  and  her 
blushful  nose  shone  through  an  aureole  of  flour; 
she  breathed  of  goodies.  And  just  at  the  hard 
parts  of  the  lessons,  she  would  be  minded  of  her 
gingerbread  or  biscuits,  and  out  she  would  speed 
to  the  oven  to  try  them.  Then,  if  her  pans  were 
a  success,  she  was  too  pleased  with  herself  to  find 
fault  with  little  lads  and  lassies ;  and  if  her  pans 
were  scorched  or  backward,  she  would  lay  aside 
the  lesson  for  a  time  in  order  to  give  her  un 
divided  mind  to  matters  more  important. 

In  winter  Edmund,  together  with  the  other 
boys  and  girls,  would  slide  down  hill  on  the  drive 
way  during  recess,  a  sorry  slope,  a  mole-ridge 
on  a  grass  plot.  But  when  you  are  sliding  prone 
for  the  first  time  in  your  life,  even  a  moderate 
decline  satisfies  for  the  hour  at  least,  while  a 
thank-you-marm,  if  only  a  protuberant  cobble 
stone,  is  a  sensation.  When  a  melting  day 


6o      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

came,  the  children  played  soldiers,  and  in  less 
time  than  I  need  to  tell  it,  Edmund  was  made 
captain. 

Mrs.  Lathrop,  kind,  impartial,  looked  on  from 
the  window  where  she  was  rolling  out  caraway 
seed  cookies.  Presently  she  stepped  to  the 
doorsill. 

" Edmund!"  she  called. 

The  juvenile  battalion  halted,  Edmund  at  the 
head,  radiant. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  schoolma'am  mildly,  "you 
were  captain  all  through  the  recess,  yesterday. 
My  dear,  you  are  the  tiniest  scholar  of  us  all. 
Don't  you  think  that  it  would  be  courteous  to 
let  some  one  else  be  captain?" 

The  quivering  little  frame,  moist  with  energy 
and  enterprise,  fronted  her  squarely.  The  shin 
ing  eyes  fixed  on  her  serious  eyes,  intent  on  their 
meaning. 

Could  it  be  that  he  was  taking  more  than  his 
share  ? 

"They  all  may  be  captains!"  he  cried  gener 
ously;  "every  one  of  them  may  be  a  captain!" 
He  scanned  his  disintegrating  forces.  Leader- 


THE  HURRYING  WORLD  61 

ship  was  necessary  to  hold  the  troop  in  form. 
He  saw  it,  and  added,  "And  I'll  be  the  general !" 

How  he  came  to  lose  his  half-holidays  was 
through  having  to  go  to  Saturday  afternoon 
school  to  Miss  Sally  Goodell  who  lived  directly 
across  the  road  from  Sentry  Hill,  under  the 
Harland  windows.  I  very  much  fear  that  the 
little  lad  was  "into  everything"  just  as  his  aunts 
declared,  and  that  they  wished  to  be  sure  of  his 
whereabouts.  "Other  children  will  sit  still  and 
behave  themselves,"  his  Aunt  Eunice  used  to 
say,  as  if  behaving  were  an  amusement  in  itself ; 
"but  Edmund  must  be  up  and  doing,  every 
blessed  minute." 

Besides  learning  to  sew  a  seam,  he  learned  to 
work  a  sampler  as  nicely  as  a  girl. 

"Did  you  not  take  up  more  than  two  threads?" 
questioned  Miss  Sally,  glancing  from  the  seam 
into  his  anxious,  praise-expectant  face.  "The 
stitches  look  a  trifle  coarse." 

"If  you  take  off  your  spectacles,  I  think  they 
will  look  smaller !"  explained  the  little  scholar. 

Gratuitously  and  unsolicited,  he  fashioned  a 
nest  of  fresh  grass  for  the  silver  bird  that  oblig- 


62      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

ingly  held  Miss  Sally's  cloth  for  her  in  its  tiny 
beak.  But  when  he  was  trying  to  make  the 
bird  sit  down,  along  came  Miss  Sally  and  tapped 
him  so  smartly  on  the  forehead  with  her  thimble 
that  it  made  the  tears  start;  then  she  pinned 
him  to  her  apron,  where  he  stood,  while  the 
foolish  bird,  now  empty-mouthed  as  it  was  empty- 
eyed,  continued  to  set  in  mid-air. 

In  manhood,  he  still  could  remember  having 
been  taken  in  extreme  childhood  to  a  school 
master  in  the  basement  of  a  church ;  he  could 
remember  dimly,  as  in  a  dream,  the  gravestone- 
shaped,  receding  windows,  and  how  he  sat  in 
one  of  them,  with  a  tin  cup  tied  around  his  neck 
by  way  of  augmenting  his  disgrace.  Unaware 
what  wrong  he  had  done  and  seraphically  in 
different  to  the  covert  gibes  of  the  righteous, 
he  continued  to  sit  the  afternoon  out  precisely 
as  he  was  placed,  mildly  meditative  and  inno 
cently  brooding  over  the  school.  But  whether 
this  was  in  Norwich,  or  whether  I  have  confused 
his  earliest  memories  of  Norwich  with  the  faigone 
days  in  Plainfield,  when  he  went  to  school  to  Mr. 
Davidson  and  Mr.  Wallace,  I  cannot  say.  Pos- 


THE  HURRYING  WORLD  63 

sibly  the  church  school  was  a  stepping-stone  to 
Mrs.  Lathrop's,  just  as  Mrs.  Lathrop's  was  a 
stepping-stone  to  the  brick  schoolhouse  on  the 
Green.  Possibly  he  was  withdrawn  from  the 
down-town  school  because  it  always  took  him 
so  long  to  travel  to  the  Landing. 

There  was  much  business  for  little  Edmund  to 
attend  to  en  route.  Of  course,  if  he  had  an  apple, 
he  had  to  stop  to  give  a  bite  of  it  to  Mr.  Coit's 
heifer,  reaching  through  to  the  stone  wall  and 
calling,  "So,  bos!  so,  bos!'7  or  coaxing,  "I  won't 
hurt  you  !"  if  she  did  not  come  at  once.  He  had 
to  kick  pebbles  from  the  footbridge,  where  to 
day  the  Hospital  stands,  into  the  brook;  that 
was  a  devoir  he  seldom  failed  of.  And  just  be 
fore  he  came  to  the  Stocking  Mill,  he  stopped  at 
Leffingwell  Row  to  whistle  to  a  canary  that  hung 
in  the  sun  from  a  doorway.  He  loved  that  little 
bird.  He  could  not  see  it,  —  not  when  he  stood 
underneath  the  cage,  —  but  he  stood  underneath 
the  cage  nevertheless  and  chirruped  self-forget- 
tingly  until  the  blithe  responses  answered,  or  a 
burst  of  golden  melody  rained  down  upon  his 
head.  Last  of  all,  he  came  to  a  halt  in  front  of 


64      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Mr.  Bliss's  front  gate,  and  with  his  nose  thrust 
through  the  palings  waited  for  brown-eyed  Betsy 
to  appear.  He  had  heard  it  said  that  Tom  was 
waiting  on  Betsy,  and  he  thought  that  he  would 
wait  on  her  too.  When  she  came  in  sight,  he 
called  solemnly,  "Heigho!"  To  this  Betsy  re 
plied,  "Heigho!"  after  which  interchange  of 
greetings,  he  resumed  his  journey  to  school, 
running  till  he  was  out  of  breath.  The  Mat 
thews  gateway  marked  the  last  of  his  stop-overs, 
unless  it  happened  that  a  passer-by  spoke  kindly 
to  him,  when  he  stood  quite  still,  delighting  in 
affection !  —  poor  little  dog,  with  his  innocent, 
grave  eyes  uplifted,  and  with  a  bright  glow  com 
ing  and  going,  breathlike,  on  his  cheek. 

But  it  was  in  the  brick  schoolhouse  on  the 
Green  that  Edmund's  true  school  days  began. 
The  brick  schoolhouse  was  made  of  one  square 
room,  with  a  long  hallway  at  the  eastern  end, 
and  was  ruled  by  the  Reverend  Doctor  Gulliver, 
a  good  and  kind  man.  The  schoolroom  had 
windows  on  three  walls,  with  desks  stretching 
along  the  walls  under  the  windows  and  with  a 
running  bench  facing  the  desks.  In  the  middle 


THE  HURRYING  WORLD  65 

of  the  room  was  a  platform  for  the  Reverend 
Schoolmaster.  When  I  first  saw  the  brick  school- 
house,  there  were  half  a  dozen  heavy  nails  driven 
into  the  plaster,  and  upon  the  staunchest  of  them 
reclined  a  large  horsewhip  painted  white,  —  to 
inspire  pallor,  I  suppose.  How  my  school  teacher, 
Miss  Dustin,  applied  its  five-foot,  six-inch  length, 
holding  at  the  same  time  her  blubbering  offender 
by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  —  or  by  the  ear !  —  I 
cannot  now  understand,  but  she  did  so  manage, 
and  applied  it  in  the  anteroom  —  the  hall.  And 
through  the  anteroom's  closed  door  came  the 
sound  of  the  griping  snarl  of  the  lash,  followed 
by  the  uproarious  sobbing  of  the  victim.  Thrash 
ings  in  those  days  were  conducted  behind  locked 
doors;  and  the  howls,  the  scuffings  on  the  bare 
boards,  the  thuds  against  the  wall,  the  chance 
overturning  of  the  waterbucket,  the  two-steps 
and  agonized  prancings  —  while  the  whip  curled 
around  the  coat  pegs  —  were  a  lesson  to  inspire 
the  unwhipped  boy  with  awful  caution. 

The  pegs  along  the  anteroom  walls  held  the 
youngsters'  caps  and  cloaks.  The  tin  dinner 
pail  stood  in  place  under  its  respective  owner's 


66      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

wearabouts,  provided  the  distance  were  too  great 
and  the  child  too  tender  to  make  the  noon  trip 
home.  Midway  along  the  line,  beaded  and 
beery-brown,  drowsed  the  wooden  water  pail. 
If  the  afternoon  was  hot  and  humid,  Reverend 
Gulliver  honored  the  largest  scholar  by  detailing 
him  to  fetch  the  water  pail  into  the  schoolroom, 
and  the  masculine  Hebe,  walking  decorously 
beside  the  bench,  dispensed  drinks,  while  each 
successive  urchin  drank  more  laboriously,  with 
gaze  that  drifted  around  the  schoolroom  over 
the  top  of  the  rust-bearded  dipper. 

And  Edmund  drank  with  the  rest,  —  drank 
artlessly  and  endlessly,  leaving  off  now  and  then 
to  give  way  to  a  gasp  of  exhausted  content,  yet 
holding  tight  to  the  handle  of  the  pail  to  signify 
that  his  thirst  was  still  unquenched,  until  Doctor 
Gulliver  called  sharply,  "Ned  Stedman,  that 
will  do;  don't  you  know  when  you  have  had 
enough?" 

The  day  was  without  a  pause  for  Edmund. 
Time  did  not  fold  its  wings  for  him.  He  was 
hurried  from  one  task  to  another.  He  was  always 
on  the  road  or  at  lessons.  From  week's  end  to 


THE  HURRYING  WORLD  67 

week's  end,  he  did  not  have  an  hour  save  at 
twilight,  or  as  he  snatched  it  piecemeal  from  the 
noon.  Five  o'clock  until  seven  of  a  morning  was 
an  established  hour  for  study.  Miss  Louise, 
who  advertised  to  teach  young  ladies,  could  not 
put  up  with  a  pupil  who  was  tardy  —  at  five 
A.M. 

"What!"  she  said  to  a  laggard  and  looked 
truly  grieved  while  she  said  it,  "can  you  not 
reach  school  at  five  o'clock  ?  —  at  a  quarter  be 
fore  five  even,  thus  to  have  time  to  hang  up  your 
cloak  tidily  and  compose  your  mind?  My  child, 
I  fear  you  are  a  sluggard !"  And  she  said  "slug 
gard  "  so  reluctantly  and  so  sadly  that  the  de 
linquent  lass  laid  down  her  head  on  the  desk  and, 
despairing  of  herself  for  earth  and  eternity,  wept. 

Edmund  was  as  busily  occupied  as  when  he 
was  in  the  stagecoach  staring  at  strange  sights 
until  his  eyes  burned;  and  he  did  not  suspect 
that  the  bustle  and  hurry,  the  going  unkissed  to 
bed  in  a  house  where  he  felt  more  and  more  a 
sojourner,  the  being  pushed  from  pillow  to  post, 
would  not  come  to  an  end.  Without  thinking 
it  out  for  himself,  the  Puritan  thrift  of  time 


68      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

and  pence  and  affection  seemed  to  him  a  part 
of  the  wearisome  journey,  —  a  journey  that 
would  end  in  the  arms  that  he  longed  for. 
No  one  had  told  him  that  he  was  never  to 
go  back  to  live  with  his  mother,  —  never,  never 
again ! 


VI 

FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN 

SUNDAY  begins  less  early  nowadays  than  it 
began  in  Norwich  Town  a  century  ago.  In 
Edmund's  boyhood,  the  day  began  at  sundown 
on  Saturday,  and  as  it  approached,  it  cast  its 
shadow  before. 

Aunt  Abby  was  mistress  of  the  tub,  and  into 
the  tub  the  boys  went,  each  in  turn,  and  unless 
they  soaped  and  scoured  and  scrubbed  them 
selves  from  top  to  toe,  Aunt  Abby  tried  a  hand  at 
them,  and  when  she  turned  an  ear  inside  out 
there  was  something  to  show  for  it,  or  she  kept 
at  her  diggings  until  she  was  rewarded  for  the 
pains  she  took  and  gave,  and  could  hold  up  the 
washcloth  triumphantly  and  cry,  "There!  Look 
at  it !  Did  you  ever  see  such  dirt  ?  " 

"It's  live  skin,"  protested  Edmund  with  the 


70      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

earnestness  of  conviction;  and  perhaps  he  was 
right. 

Whew !  But  how  cold  it  was  on  a  wintry  day, 
when  he  stepped  steaming  out  of  the  tub  to  the 
wet  chilly  floor  of  the  washroom.  How  draughty 
the  air  became !  Unless  the  tanned,  small  hands 
rubbed  fast  and  hard  and  succeeded  in  keeping 
ahead  of  the  cold,  —  in  getting  the  little  beaded 
legs  dry  before  they  grew  blue  and  the  fair  skin 
puckered  into  goose  flesh,  how  suddenly  was  the 
air  torn  into  a  thousand  shreds  of  sharp-breathed 
gusts  and  puffs ! 

Edmund  was  ecstatic  in  the  tub.  In  spite  of 
cold,  or  more  chilling  admonition,  his  spirits 
were  continually  breaking  bounds.  He  hit  upon 
so  many  topics  of  lively  interest,  he  lost  his 
footing  so  often  and  nearly  fell,  only  to  shout  aloud 
in  the  excitement  of  his  prowess  at  catching 
himself  in  time,  or  he  fell  prone  with  so  mighty  a 
whack  that  his  aunt  shut  the  door  to  deprive 
him  of  an  audience.  Yet  his  sudden  plunges  and 
splashings,  his  frenzied  dives  through  steam  and 
sud  to  recover  lost  possessions,  brought  back  the 
boys  to  the  keyhole  as  often  as  they  left  it. 


FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN     71 

At  the  outset,  Aunt  Abby  looked  him  over  to 
divest  him  of  possible  playthings,  and  in  much 
sweetness  and  docility  he  yielded  up  a  mine  of 
treasures ;  yet  notwithstanding  his  good  inten 
tions  and  her  care,  he  seemed  able  to  pick  up 
limitless  articles  in  the  water.  She  had  locked 
him  alone  in  the  washroom  one  evening,  and  stood 
outside  the  door,  and  prayed  for  grace.  She 
had  told  him  to  soap  himself.  For  a  brief  time 
there  was  a  sound  of  tremendous  activity.  Then 
silence. 

"Edmund!" 

Silence. 

"Edmund!" 

Sepulchral  silence.  Not  even  the  trickle  of 
suds. 

She  unlocked  the  door  and  entered. 

No  Edmund. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  get  out  of  the 
room.  But  the  impossible  was  nothing  to  Ed 
mund.  Aunt  Abby's  nerves  were  already  un 
strung.  Trembling,  she  reached  her  hand  down 
into  the  frothy  water. 

"Squeak  I" 


72      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

She  did  riot  stop  to  consider  or  ruminate. 
Staid  as  she  was,  she  jumped  like  a  heifer. 

He  had  left  the  tub  altogether  as  being 
a  place  not  propitious  for  showing  his  person 
to  advantage.  He  stood  behind  the  door, 
straight  as  Apollo,  proud  as  Lucifer,  happy  as 
a  host  of  carolling  angels ;  he  had  soaped  him 
self;  he  had  raised  an  unbelievable  lather;  he 
was  as  white  as  the  sheeted  dead  to  his  very 
chin. 

She  was  ready  to  drop.  She  stood,  shaking 
from  head  to  foot.  It  was  at  that  instant  that 
all  of  his  zestful  delight  died  in  a  cry  of  alarm. 

"You  are  stepping  on  my  snake  !" 

She  lifted  her  foot  quickly !  Her  next  step 
was  backwards  into  the  hall.  He  could  hear  her 
breathe  as  if  she  had  been  running.  "James!" 
he  heard  her  call  to  his  uncle  in  a  strange,  hard 
voice. 

Edmund  stood  transfixed  with  fear.  He  pre 
sented  a  field  for  birch  unparalleled  in  his  experi 
ence.  He  heard  his  uncle's  step,  and  he  heard 
his  aunt  say  sharply,  "It  is  Edmund  —  he  has 
a  snake  —  in  the  washroom." 


FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN     73 

The  deacon  did  not  enter,  but  stood  outside. 
"Where  is  your  snake?"  he  demanded,  looking 
down  at  the  shivering  little  ghost. 

Edmund,  white  as  if  clad,  faced  him  eagerly. 
"It  is  right  here,  Sir,  here  in  my  hands."  He 
opened  his  hands  with  exceeding  caution.  "It 
is  a  horsehair  snake,  Sir.  Jerry  said  that  if  I 
kept  a  hair  from  a  horse's  tail  in  water  long  enough, 
it  would  turn  into  a  snake.  I  was  afraid  that  the 
soap  would  hurt  its  eyes,  so  I  laid  it  on  the  floor. 
Aunt  Abby  stood  right  on  it.  I  guess  she's 
killed  it,"  he  added,  with  a  plaintive  little  choke. 
"It's  all  I  had  to  play  with  that's  alive,  and  it 
isn't  truly  alive  yet !" 

Aunt  Abby's  chagrin  mounted  even  higher  than 
her  nervous  wrath.  "Look  at  him,  James,"  she 
cried;  "look  at  him!" 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?" 
demanded  the  deacon. 

The  child's  invisible  innocence  was  suddenly 
made  visible  and  fixed  like  frost  on  a  pane. 
"Aunt  Abby  told  me  to  soap  myself  all  over, 
Sir,"  he  said  earnestly.  "She  told  me  to  do  it 
just  as  well  as  I  could." 


74      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

"Abby,  did  you  tell  Edmund  to  soap  himself 
all  over?"  questioned  the  deacon. 

"I  did." 

The  deacon's  face  remained  stern,  but  there 
was  a  whimsical  leisureliness  in  his  tone  as  he 
inquired,  "Does  Edmund  seem  to  you  to  have 
been  disobedient,  Abby?" 

"He  never  behaves!"  she  cried,  sick  with 
exasperation. 

"Edmund,"  said  his  uncle,  "  if  you  do  not  know 
how  to  behave,  get  into  the  tub  and  go  to  bed." 

Edmund's  face  became  anxious.  "Go  to  bed 
in  the  tub?"  he  asked. 

"  Get  into  the  tub  —  rinse  the  soap  —  dry 
yourself  —  and  go  to  bed  in  your  bed,"  said 
Deacon  Stedman. 

Edmund  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  had  to 
go  to  bed  in  any  case. 

As  a  rule,  the  tubbings  began  early,  but  whether 
they  came  late  or  soon,  there  were  the  boots  to 
be  blackened,  —  nearly  a  score  of  pairs  set  along 
the  hearthstone  in  a  crescent,  with  a  stool  at  one 
side,  and  the  pot  of  beeswax  and  lampblack,  — 
the  leading  make  of  polish  in  Norwich  Town  in 


FROM   SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN     75 

1848.  Each  child  must  polish  his  own  foot  gear, 
and  Edmund  polished  his  brass-stubbed,  diminu 
tively  masculine  boots  till  he  could  see  his  nose 
in  them ;  polished  them  till  even  his  placid  Aunt 
Eunice  lost  all  patience,  and  taking  up  Aunt  Abby's 
plaint  cried,  " Edmund,  stop  that;  stop,  this 
minute !  If  you  don't  know  when  to  leave  off, 
you  would  better  go  to  bed !  I  never  saw  such  a 
child!" 

Edmund  was  always  having  to  go  to  bed. 

No  romping  was  allowed  in  the  bedroom,  and 
no  light,  except  the  ray  from  the  candle  in  the 
hall.  At  bedtime,  Edmund  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  brown,  quilt-covered  bed,  and  kicked  till  his 
boots  came  off ;  then,  lying  back,  he  kicked  till 
his  funny  brown  breeches  fell  in  a  heap.  Then, 
pushing  his  stockings  partly  free  by  way  of  en 
couragement,  he  kicked  and  kicked.  It  took  a 
long  time  and  a  deal  of  kicking  for  the  pair  to 
part  company  with  his  heels,  but  when  at  length 
they  did,  they  shot  up  to  the  ceiling  and  dropped 
down  where  they  pleased.  Then  Edmund  dived 
into  bed,  dragging  his  red  flannel  nightgown  after 
him,  all  ready  for  the  nocturnal  fight  with 


76      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

his  bedfellow  over  the  debatable  middle  of  the 
bed. 

" Edmund,  have  you  said  your  prayers?" 
came  his  Aunt  Eunice's  voice  from  the  entry. 

"I  am  saying  them  now,"  responded  Edmund 
in  a  tone  that  rebuked  conversation. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  on  the  first  winter's  night 
of  the  season  to  see  the  little  fellows  —  there 
were  no  less  than  six  of  them  nigh  of  an  age; 
three  pairs  of  brothers  sent  like  Edmund  to  the 
deacon  to  be  educated,  Hunt  and  Turville  Adams, 
Emilie  and  Virgilio  Lasaga,  Edmund  and  little 
Charlie  —  standing  in  the  red  firelight  in  their 
red  flannel  gowns,  while  Aunt  Abby  stood  at  one 
side  looking  them  over  to  see  if  the  new  gowns 
were  too  large,  or  the  last  year's  gowns  too  small. 
Uncle  James  too  came  in  and  gave  his  opinion 
with  a  legal,  professional  precision  that  made  a 
too  large  gown  look  small,  and  a  too  small  gown 
swell  with  pride  at  being  noticed  by  him. 

The  boots  were  blackened  before  the  tubbing, 
and  before  the  boots  were  blackened,  the  fresh 
clothes  were  brought  forth  from  the  linen  press 
and  laid  in  orderly  piles  for  the  morning.  There 


FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN     77 

was  no  work  on  the  Lord's  day;  the  Lord's  day 
was  work  enough. 

The  Saturday  supper  savored  of  Sunday.  No 
trivial  speech  was  indulged  in;  sound  seemed 
sacrilege.  Deacon  Stedman  did  not  speak,  save 
to  remark  to  Aunt  Eunice,  when  she  was  pour 
ing  his  tea,  "Only  up  to  the  blue,  Eunice,  up  to 
the  blue!"  He  was  temperate  in  all  things. 
After  supper,  the  household  assembled  in  the 
parlor,  and  when  they  were  settled,  Judge  Sted 
man  (you  remember  that  he  was  a  judge  as  well 
as  a  deacon)  read  a  chapter  from  Holy  Writ. 
Then,  standing  with  his  chair  before  him  and 
with  his  hand  on  the  top  of  it,  he  began  solemnly 
and  slowly,  after  the  manner  of  the  good  Judge 
Noyes,  to  tell  the  story  of  the  Creation,  the  Fall, 
the  Expulsion  from  Eden,  the  wickedness  of  man, 
the  Flood,  God's  covenant  with  Noah,  with  Abra 
ham,  with  David,  the  final  and  supreme  scene  of 
the  Redemption.  He  warmed  more  and  more  to 
the  subject;  he  grasped  his  chair  with  both 
hands;  he  rapped  it  on  the  floor;  at  last,  when 
he  came  to  the  Death  of  Him  whom  cruel  men 
crowned  with  thorns  and  nailed  upon  a  cross, 


78      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

he  thrust  back  the  chair  from  him  against  the 
wall  with  a  feeling  violence  that  made  the 
windows  shake. 

And  after  Saturday  —  the  Sabbath ! 

Hot  baked  pork  and  beans,  hot  steamed  brown 
bread,  and  apple  sauce  were  the  Saturday  night's 
customary  supper;  cold  pork  and  beans,  cold 
bread,  cold  apple  sauce,  the  Sunday  breakfast; 
roast  sparerib  cold  and  cold  vegetables  were  the 
usual  Sunday  dinner.  In  godly  families  no  cook 
ing  whatever  was  done  on  the  Sabbath ;  warmed- 
over  beans  and  bread  made  the  Monday  break 
fast.  Church  worship  started  off  with  the  ten 
o'clock  morning  service  which  lasted  till  twelve; 
then  came  Sunday  school  till  one.  Country  folk 
brought  lunch  with  them  and  ate  it  circumspectly 
under  the  trees  behind  the  meetinghouse.  The 
afternoon  service  began  at  two  o'clock  and  con 
tinued  until  four.  Even  young  children  were 
expected  to  sit  through  all  the  services,  and  if 
Edmund  felt  a  trifle  languid  from  an  excess  of 
beans  and  Bible,  his  Aunt  Abby  glanced  askance 
at  him,  and  the  whisper  went  from  elder  to  elder, 
"H'm  —  another  of  his  Sunday  headaches  !" 


FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN     79 

I  used  to  have  the  Sunday  headache  myself, 
and  I  know  what  it  is.  I  used  to  stare  idly  into 
the  gallery  at  the  orphanage  children  sitting  out 
lined  against  the  blue  of  the  outer  sky,  like  charity 
angels ;  and  then  my  eyes  would  wander  through 
the  clean-paned  windows,  and  I  would  watch 
the  beautiful,  brave  trees  with  their  hands  held 
up  to  God.  But  when  I  wearied,  a  loving  arm 
that  made  of  itself  a  pillow  slipped  around  me, 
and  I  both  laid  me  down  and  slept  and  waked 
again  and  did  not  fear,  no,  not  all  the  deacons  in 
the  world  nor  yet  the  stiff  looks  of  a  spinster  who 
wore  corkscrew  curls  dyed  black,  —  she  wears 
them  now !  —  for  it  was  my  mother's  arm  that 
held  me;  and  my  mother  was  my  house  of  de 
fense,  my  city  of  refuge. 

The  meetinghouse,  as  it  used  to  be,  had  a  round 
dome  of  a  sounding  board  swung  in  the  middle  of 
it.  Clustered  columns  supporting  the  galleries 
expanded  into  Gothic  arches.  The  pews  were 
square,  with  seats  around  two  sides,  and  in  the 
center  stood  an  armed  chair  for  the  patriarch  of 
the  family.  Edmund's  aunts  had  wooden  and 
brass  foot  stoves,  and  Edmund  and  the  other 


8o      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

children  sat  around  on  stools  on  the  floor.  Of 
course  he  could  not  see  anything  when  he  was 
seated,  but  he  could  hear  and  he  did  not  lack  for 
opportunity  to  listen.  The  pulpit  was  high 
against  the  ceiling  and  was  reached  by  a  winding 
staircase,  narrow  as  Jacob's  ladder. 

The  Reverend  Parson  preached  according  to 
precedent.  He  was  not  to  be  outdone  by  any 
predecessor,  however  long  under  the  sod,  or  how 
ever  long-winded;  he  preached  for  the  best  part 
of  an  hour  by  the  glass  under  the  pulpit,  and  into 
his  prayer  he  condensed  all  the  news  of  the  week 
—  public,  town,  village,  and  foreign  events.  So 
specific  and  so  particular  were  his  supplications 
and  thanksgivings  that  his  congregation  listened 
to  the  latest  and  most  trustworthy  bulletin  of 
affairs  at  home  and  abroad.  The  long  prayer 
was  of  great  interest  to  the  "elderlies",  especially 
to  the  countryfolk  of  outlying  districts  who 
rarely  saw  a  current  newspaper;  but  to  little 
Edmund,  the  parson's  peregrinations  latitudi- 
nally  from  the  Norwich  Landing  to  the  Ganges 
were  indifferently  dull,  and  his  peregrinations 
longitudinally  from  earth  to  heaven  little  better, 


FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN     81 

when  they  stopped  short  of  hell.  Hell  was  some 
what  interesting,  but  even  the  doings  in  the  nether 
world  lost  their  fascination  through  familiarity. 

So  Edmund  amused  himself  by  sitting  farther 
and  farther  back  on  his  cushionless  four-footed 
stool.  He  observed  that  by  spreading  his  legs 
wide  apart  the  space  between  his  knees  was  like 
the  letter  V.  Soon  he  evolved  a  little  game  of 
his  own.  First  he  made  the  V's  smaller  and 
smaller;  then  he  went  to  the  other  extreme  and 
made  the  V's  larger  and  larger  —  till  he  sat  back 
beyond  the  limit  of  balance  when,  without  warning, 
up  went  the  legs  of  the  footstool,  and  over  he  and 
the  bench  went  together  with  such  a  thud  of  his 
head  on  the  floor  and  with  such  a  clatter  of  the 
bench  against  the  bare  boards  that  our  parson, 
the  terror  of  Sabbath  breakers,  came  to  a  full 
stop.  It  sounded  as  if  at  least  the  gallery  were 
falling  !  Edmund,  in  his  zeal  to  mend  the  matter, 
scrambled  from  under  the  pew  where  he  had  been 
shot,  and  not  stopping  to  set  the  bench  right  side 
up,  or  not  observing  that  it  was  topsy-turvy,  sat 
himself  down  on  it  with  so  absolute  an  abandon 
that  he  stuck  fast ;  and  not  till  his  uncle  grasped 


82      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

him  by  the  collar  and  lifting  him  and  his  stool 
in  mid-air,  shook  him,  did  he  and  his  seat  dis 
solve  partnership.  And  when  they  did  dissolve 
it,  there  was  a  second  crash  —  more  awful  than 
the  first. 

In  Edmund's  boyhood,  Mr.  Stevens  who 
lived  near  the  path  into  the  burial  ground  was 
choir  master,  and  he  trained  his  choir  martially. 
There  was  no  falling  behind  in  time.  The 
singers  came  down  on  each  beat  with  a  rhythmic 
regularity  that  threatened  to  undo  the  meeting 
house,  and  when  a  hymn  was  under  way  the  hills 
around  the  Green  resounded.  The  congregation 
caught  the  infection  of  the  heartiness  and  sang 
with  might  and  main.  There  were  twenty-five 
men  and  twenty-five  women  in  the  choir  proper ; 
—  trebles,  basses,  seconds,  and  altos,  stationed 
decorously  with  the  men  on  one  side  of  the 
gallery  and  the  women  on  the  other  side.  They 
sang  through  their  noses  and  they  carried  it  to 
the  point  that  it  was  an  art.  The  women 
managed  the  melody,  and  trilled  and  wailed  and 
quavered  ;  those  who  fell  short  in  style  were 
ranged  as  seconds  ;  the  basses  sang  turn-turn, 


FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN      83 

turn-turn,  —  their  crescendos  were  terrific,  their 
minuendos  matchless  ;  the  altos  soared  off  by 
themselves  on  a  high  scale  of  flats. 

Mr.  C.  P.  Huntington,  the  great-grandson  of 
Washington's  aide-de-camp,  was  as  straight  as 
an  arrow  in  his  nobility  of  breed.  He  had  an 
Adam's  apple  that  must  have  been  the  despair  of 
all  the  Adam's  apples  in  the  county.  During 
Mr.  Huntington's  participation  in  divine  worship, 
Edmund's  interest  in  watching  the  Adam's  apple 
was  undisguised.  There  was  never  an  Adam's 
apple  that  had  such  a  wonderful  range.  It 
worked  up  and  down  like  a  human  pump-handle; 
it  was  always  on  time.  It  descended  so  low  that 
to  dream  that  it  would  rise  again  seemed  hope 
less;  then,  when  all  seemed  lost,  it  reappeared, 
slowly,  grandly,  with  a  masterful  steadiness  that 
left  no  question  that  it  could  have  gone  on  rising 
through  eternity,  if  so  it  had  pleased.  Mr. 
Wolcott  Huntington  also  was  patrician.  He  was 
of  a  type  that  nature  molds  but  once  in  centuries. 
But  he  was  merely  another  object  of  pleasant 
scrutiny  to  Edmund.  When  Mr.  Huntington 
sang,  his  ears,  emulating  his  kinsman's  Adam's 


84      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

apple  arose  in  their  places,  and  his  mighty  shock 
of  iron  hair  shook  like  Libanus  in  a  storm. 

Edmund  was  early  assigned  a  place  among  the 
trebles  on  a  bench  in  the  gallery.  He  had  a 
sweet,  clear  voice  and  could  carry  any  tune  he 
heard.  All  the  lads  affected  to  sing,  and  Edmund 
and  his  friends  sat  in  a  row  together,  —  an  ar 
rangement  which  no  doubt  afforded  unbounded 
delectation  to  the  old  Gentleman  who  runs  a 
mischief-bureau  for  the  idle. 

Throughout  the  hour-long  prayer,  while  the 
parson  conducted  the  Almighty  through  India 
and  the  Sandwich  Isles,  Edmund  was  on  a  tour 
personally  conducted  by  himself. 

"  There  is  no  courser  like  a  book  to  bear  us  miles 

away, 
Nor  any  chariot  like  a  page  of  prancing  poesy. " 

Edmund  possessed  a  darling  volume  of  poetry, 
an  old  copy  of  Keats.  Where  it  came  from, 
how  he  came  by  it,  I  do  not  know;  but  it 
was  his,  and  it  was  buttoned  safe  against  his 
heart.  And  when  the  long  prayer  was  well  under 
way,  when  the  congregation  had  no  ear  save  for 
the  news,  when  his  own  fair  brow  and  fairer  lids 


FROM  SUNDOWN  TO  SUNDOWN      85 

made  the  gallery  bar  they  leaned  on  warm,  and 
he  was  bowed  before  the  Being  who  had  made 
him  as  he  was,  he  drew  out  his  book  and  read. 
He  was  no  more  sad  or  lonely,  nor  chilled  by  the 
winter's  cold,  nor  faint  with  the  summer's  heat. 
Unearthly  exulting  joy  awoke  in  his  veins  and 
sang  to  him. 

And  when  the  parson  read  again,  passing  from 
the  largeness  of  utterance  of  Isaiah  to  the  human 
tears  and  tenderness  of  "In  my  Father's  house  are 
many  mansions,"  and  his  iron  voice,  which  at 
will  had  risen  to  the  grandeur  of  the  prophet, 
now  sank  in  despite  of  his  will  to  the  compassionat 
ing  humanness  of  the  Saviour  of  men,  Edmund 
already  in  the  spirit  mounted  on  the  twin  wings 
of  longing  and  need  to  the  throne  of  the  Eternal. 

Incidentally  Edmund  picked  up  from  the 
choristers  bits  of  gossip  not  mentioned  by  the 
parson  in  his  prayer.  He  learned  for  the  first 
time  that  the  girls  of  Bean  Hill  were  without 
counterpart  in  the  whole  history  and  galaxy  of 
beauty,  and  that  the  young  men  sitting  behind 
him  were  in  the  habit  of  attending  the  midweek 
meetings  in  the  basement  of  the  Bean  Hill  Metho- 


86      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

dist  Church  and  beauing  these  charmers  home. 
It  was  great  sport  —  so  they  told  him.  Tom 
Harland  spoke  of  the  Backus  sisters  as  devilish 
fine  women.  Cynthia  Backus  was  fairly  thirteen, 
and  the  downright  vehemence  with  which  Tom 
said  the  " devilish"  stirred  Edmund  with  a  deter 
mination  to  slip  out  from  the  Stedman  rooftree 
at  the  first  opportunity.  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  beau  one  of  these  devilish  fine  women  of  twelve 
or  fourteen;  he  would  not  hang  around  outside 
the  church  door,  in  the  shadows  of  the  elm  trees, 
waiting  for  her  to  sally  forth,  the  way  the  rest 
of  the  fellows  did;  he  would  wait  boldly  in  the 
vestry  and  accost  her  as  a  gentleman  should 
accost  a  lady.  This  was  his  covenant  with  him 
self  on  the  subject  of  the  Sex. 

So  Sunday  ended,  and  Edmund,  feeling  all 
prayed  out,  said  his  prayers  yet  once  again  and 
went  to  bed. 


VII 

HARLAND  HOUSE 

IN  Tom  and  Ed  Harland's  house  on  Sentry 
Hill,  you  can  see  the  books  before  you  mount  the 
stairway.  The  walls  are  covered  with  them. 
The  walls  have  not  shown  themselves  for  genera 
tions;  the  most  that  they  can  do  is  to  squint 
through  random  spaces  left  by  gadding  volumes 
and,  like  spinsters  around  the  Green  who  spy 
through  tilted  shutters,  try  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
life.  The  ladies  do  not  live ;  they  look  on  life. 
But  the  books  move  and  have  a  being.  They 
warm  to  the  touch  of  human  hands ;  they  answer 
to  the  gaze  of  human  eyes ;  they  are  sought  after, 
and  loved,  and  taken  on  jaunts  from  attic  to  arbor. 
They  share  the  hearthlight  and  the  lamplight 
with  the  family;  they  enjoy  intelligent  compan 
ionship;  they  are  brought  forward  to  be  intro- 


88      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

duced  to  strangers;  they  accompany  friendly 
personages  home ;  they  go  visiting  their  neighbors. 

A  black  walnut  hand  rail  seems  to  run  across 
the  faces  of  the  books  on  the  upper  landing,  as 
if  to  guard  them  behind  bars,  but  it  is  only  the 
baluster,  that  turns  when  it  reaches  the  top  step 
and  stretches  out  along  the  hall.  Instead  of 
shutting  one  off  from  the  shelves,  it  shuts  one  in, 
and  like  a  kind  arm  forms  a  comfortable  back, 
if  you  sit  on  the  floor  and  lean  against  its  not  too 
distant  staves.  Books,  books,  books  from  floor 
to  ceiling,  —  they  are  the  walls  in  Harland  House. 

Aside  from  its  books,  Harland  House  is  a 
storied  place,  built  as  all  the  around-town  houses 
were  built,  in  the  forenoon  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  If  you  walk  from  the  front  door  to  the 
street  without  keeping  to  the  stone  stairway,  you 
reach  the  street,  to  be  sure,  but  you  will  plunge 
headlong  down  sheer  granite  cliffs,  and  all  the 
king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men  cannot  put 
you  together  again.  No  Indian  chieftain  climbed 
to  that  house,  I  assure  you,  without  losing  his 
head  before  he  had  a  chance  to  take  to  his  heels. 
If  you  poke  your  nose  out  of  a  back-chamber 


HARLAND   HOUSE  89 

window,  you  find  yourself  in  hanging  gardens, 
so  steep  is  the  terraced  slope  on  which  the  house 
has  grown.  Henry  Harland  of  England  built 
Sentry  Hill.  He  made  the  finest  clocks  in  the 
Colonies,  and  whoever  wished  to  be  up  to  time 
applied  to  Master  Harland.  You  will  find  his 
name  in  books  that  tell  of  clocks. 

Years  later  than  the  time  of  this  story,  Tom 
Harland,  Edmund's  playmate,  married  and  had 
a  son  whom  he  named  Henry  after  the  old  clock 
maker,  and  Edmund  became  the  little  Henry 
Harland's  godfather  and  encouraged  him  to  write. 
He  wrote  Grey  Roses,  As  it  was  Written,  The  Cardi 
nal's  Snujf  Box,  and  many  other  stories,  and  would 
have  done  still  better  work  if  that  dread  disease 
which  lurks  spiderlike  in  ancestral  halls  had  not 
caught  him  in  its  web  on  the  threshold  of  his 
manhood. 

Harland  House  is  indeed  a  storied  house,  and 
Norwich  Town  a  storied  town.  The  railroad  from 
Petrograd  to  Moscow  was  engineered  by  a  young 
man  whose  sister  lived  on  the  Sheepwalk  to  the 
Landing.  His  name  was  Whistler  and  his  son  was 
James  McNeill  Whistler,  the  artist.  The  famous 


9o      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

bridge  across  the  Neva  River  in  Russia  was 
built  by  Captain  Zenas  Whiting,  who  lived  in 
a  tiny  frame  cottage  on  the  hillside  behind  the 
old  Brick  Schoolhouse  on  the  Norwich  Town 
Green.  Captain  Whiting  worked  out  by  himself 
the  problem  of  a  suspension  bridge,  and  in  the 
security  of  his  simple-hearted  sincerity,  unelated 
and  undismayed,  arose  from  his  well-scrubbed 
deal  table  and  crossed  the  seas  to  lend  his  brain 
to  the  destiny  of  a  continent. 

The  bridge  that  he  built  was  the  first  suspen 
sion  bridge  in  the  Old  World ;  it  was  a  span  be 
tween  the  night  of  despotism  and  the  dawning 
of  liberty.  Fuller's  Store  was  bequeathed  to 
Mr.  Fuller  by  his  wife's  kin,  the  Clevelands  who 
founded  Cleveland,  Ohio ;  Grover  Cleveland,  the 
silversmith's  nephew,  became  our  president. 
Little  marvel  that  Mr.  Fuller,  who  came  of  a 
line  of  schoolmasters,  did  not  grow  rich.  Men  of 
Norwich  in  those  days  were  not  in  the  world  to 
grow  rich.  Character,  not  greenbacks,  was  the 
foundation  of  their  houses.  And  although  they 
have  "fallen  on  sleep"  they  share  not  their  graves 
with  oblivion. 


HARLAND   HOUSE  91 

But  this  is  not  telling  you  of  little  Edmund. 
In  the  gloaming  of  a  midsummer  holiday,  he  was 
sitting  on  the  floor  in  the  upper  landing  of  Har- 
land  House,  reading.  He  had  a  book  on  his  knees 
and  a  heap  of  books  by  his  side.  He  could  not 
read  fast  enough.  His  shining  eyes  darted  from 
line  to  line,  and  his  attentive  forefinger  ran  along 
underneath  the  words  to  help  him  keep  his  place. 
He  was  full  of  business.  His  zeal  ran  away  with 
his  senses.  He  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing, 
felt  nothing  beyond  the  magic  of  the  page.  It 
was  thus,  out  of  breath,  hasting  and  exultant, 
that  he  happened  upon  Captain  Marryat  who 
sailed  in  the  good  ship  Beaver.  A  dashing,  fine 
gentleman  Captain  Marryat  was.  Edmund  went 
back  to  the  Stedman  house  convinced  that  there 
had  never  lived  his  like  since  time  began.  He 
dreamed  of  Captain  Marryat.  He  talked  to  him 
self  of  Captain  Marryat.  He  played  that  he 
was  Captain  Marryat.  All  of  Captain  Mar- 
ryat's  universe  was  contracted  into  the  span  of 
his  unresting  little  brain. 

Edmund  was  as  fond  of  books  as  a  water 
spaniel  of  a  pool.  He  scented  a  library  afar  off 


92      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

and  knew  the  rounds  of  them.  All  through  that 
long  midsummer  recess,  he  trotted  from  one  door 
to  another  of  homes  where  books  abided.  Gussie 
Green  had  parents  who  in  turn  had  a  library. 
There  was  a  library  in  Mr.  Daniel  Coit's  house, 
—  besides  pictures,  prints,  and  curios.  There 
were  other  libraries,  twoscore  of  them,  such  as  they 
were,  but  not  all  the  libraries  belonged  to  folk  he 
patronized.  He  passed  by  on  the  other  side  when 
he  came  to  a  house  where  he  felt  that  he  was 
not  wanted.  But  when  he  came  to  Tom  and  Ed 
Harland's  house,  or  to  Gussie's,  or  to  Mr.  Coit's,  he 
slipped  through  the  gate,  and  mounting  the  door 
step,  stood  at  the  threshold  with  his  cap  in  his  hand. 
If  he  laid  hold  of  the  Harland  House  knocker,  it 
was  just  in  his  delight  in  being  tall  enough  when 
a-tiptoe  to  reach  it.  Having  stirred  the  great 
brazen  S,  he  let  it  down  in  place  noiselessly. 

After  patient  waiting,  if  no  one  appeared,  he 
tried  the  next  house,  and  the  next,  and  the  next, 
until  at  last  some  kind  mother  espied  him  and 
called,  "  Is  that  you,  little  Ned  ?  Come  in  ! "  And 
Edmund  came  in,  flushing  to  the  finger  tips  with 
joy,  and  with  breath  shortened  for  very  eagerness. 


HARLAND   HOUSE  93 

He  felt  scant  "interest  or  curiosity  in  Deacon 
Stedman's  books.  Possibly  he  was  never  allowed 
to  prospect  upon  the  judge's  property;  there 
were  so  many  young  people  under  the  Stedman 
roof  that  perhaps  it  would  not  do  to  give  any  one 
of  them  the  freedom  of  the  shelves.  Or  it  may  be 
that  the  deacon's  library  was  made  up  of  law  books, 
books  on  theology,  and  untranslated  classics. 

"How  is  the  deacon  this  morning?"  was  the 
greeting  that  met  Edmund  on  his  route.  To 
which  he  invariably  replied,  "The  judge  is  bear 
ing  up  very  well  —  I  thank  you."  Sometimes 
he  offered  home  items  of  interest  uninvited,  or 
in  return  for  an  apple  or  a  Shrewsbury  drop.  If 
the  gift  was  an  apple,  he  turned  it  around  as 
nimbly  as  a  squirrel  turns  a  nut  and  announced 
in  his  sprightly  fashion,  "It  hasn't  a  speck  in  it! 
At  our  house  we  eat  the  specked  apples  first." 
And  then,  cocking  his  head  like  a  canary,  he 
would  add,  "And  by  the  time  we  have  eaten  the 
specked  ones,  they  all  are  specked !" 

When  Mrs.  Huntington  gave  him  a  cookie, 
he  broke  it  diligently  into  divers  parts.  Next 
he  nibbled  each  piece  in  turn  into  a  miniature 


94      A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

cake,  and  having  finished  his  work,  deposited  the 
collection  in  his  pocket.  Mrs.  Huntington  looked 
on,  over  her  needle. 

"Don't  you  care  for  seed  cookies,  Edmund?" 
she  inquired. 

"Oh,  yeth!"  he  answered,  smiling  radiantly 
at  her  in  her  simplicity,  "but  you  see  I  like  to 
have  something  to  take  home  to  the  children !" 

But  if  dancing-footed,  rosy-lipped  Gussie  saw 
him  at  the  gate,  she  flew  to  the  door,  and  snatched 
him  by  the  hand,  and  cried  out,  "Oh,  come  on  in, 
Ned!"  and  Ned,  glancing  past  her  at  the  book 
shelves,  entered  his  desired  Eden  blissfully. 

Gussie  had  a  book  of  fairy  tales,  -  -  The  White 
Cat,  Aladdin's  Lamp,  Puss  in  Boots,  —  it  was 
the  first  book  that  Edmund  read  from  cover  to 
cover.  Time  after  time  he  read  the  tales,  and 
yet  each  time  that  he  came  to  the  end  of  one  of 
them  he  gave  way  to  a  prodigious  sigh  of  satis 
faction.  With  so  heavy  odds  against  the  hero, 
the  happy-ever-afterwards  ending  always  seemed 
an  impossibility.  He  trembled  for  the  White 
Cat  lest  she  should  fail  to  appear  in  time  to  enter 
tain  her  rescuer;  he  trembled  for  the  prince  lest 


HARLAND   HOUSE  95 

he  should  turn  back  at  the  crucial  hour.  Rapt 
beyond  time  and  place  by  his  loving  solicitude  for 
the  prospective  lovers,  he  would  whisper  to  the 
prince,  "  Go  on  —  don't  stop  —  it's  all  right  - 
just  go  on  a  little  farther."  And  to  the  White 
Cat  he  would  murmur  with  the  compassionating 
encouragement  of  an  angel,  "  Don't  cry,  White 
Cat ;  he'll  come  back  —  he's  coming  back  —  right 
on  the  next  page!"  But  this  was  when  he  was 
quite  alone.  When  Gussie  read  the  tales  aloud  to 
him,  he  sat  motionless,  with  all  his  seething  fears 
and  hopes  and  sighs  pent  close  and  fast,  and  with 
his  luminous  deep  eyes  as  big  as  saucers,  until  the 
final  word  was  reached.  And  then  he  said, 
"Gussie,  if  it  were  not  for  Captain  Marryat,  I 
am  sure  that  your  book  would  be  the  finest  book 
that  ever  was  written." 

If  it  were  not  for  Captain  Marryat !  Edmund 
was  loyal.  Even  the  prince  who  won  the  White 
Cat  could  not  make  him  faithless  to  the  gallant 
captain.  Yet  although  he  would  not  admit  it 
to  Gussie,  he  knew  in  his  own  heart  that  if  he  were 
not  already  Captain  Marryat,  he  would  be  the 
doughty  prince. 


VIII 

CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S  MANTLE 

IN  spite  of  pleasant  books  and  of  the  long 
holidays  of  midsummer  which  let  down  the  bars 
and  set  little  Edmund  loose  in  the  pasture,  life 
was  not  all  Shrewsbury  drops  for  him.  Biding 
in  his  uncle's  house  still  seemed  a  part  of  the 
journey  that  began  with  the  stagecoach.  He 
reached  out  in  his  dreams  for  his  mother,  but  he 
did  not  cry.  Why  should  he  cry,  when  he  need 
only  wait?  You  see,  he  kept  supposing  that  he 
was  going  to  return. 

And  once  —  twice  —  the  journey  did  promise 
to  end.  It  was  after  this  wise.  By  the  time  that 
Edmund  had  been  in  Norwich  Town  a  whole 
year,  he  was  of  course  a  grown  boy;  and  little 
Charlie,  at  home  with  Mother  who  was  staying 
now  in  Newark,  was  no  longer  a  baby.  Charlie 
was  four  years  old ! 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S   MANTLE      97 

"Why,  when  Edmund  was  your  age,"  cried 
pretty  Elizabeth,  lifting  her  Charlie's  innocent 
face  with  her  white  hands,  "he  went  to  visit 
his  Uncle  James  in  Connecticut;  he  went  quite 
by  himself ;  he  was  considered  a  young  man ! 
What  does  my  darling  Charlie  think  of  that? 
You  mother's  baby !" 

But  Charlie  gazed  simply  at  her.  He  did  not 
understand  this  talk.  He  did  not  remember  that 
he  had  a  brother.  He  was  a  very  lackwit  when 
it  came  to  worldly  matters. 

"Don't  look  at  me  so  searchingly ! "  cried 
Elizabeth,  rumpling  his  hair  into  a  halo.  "Don't 
you  wish  to  go  to  Norwich  Town?  Don't  you 
wish  to  have  a  nice  journey?" 

Charlie  shook  his  head.  He  was  content  to 
stay  right  where  he  was. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  your  big  brother? 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  Edmund  come  to  see 
you?" 

Charlie  nodded.  He  was  always  quiet  and 
docile ;  he  had  little  to  say.  Speech  for  him  was 
either  nodding  or  shaking  his  head. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  Edmund  to  take  you  back 


98      A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

with  him  to  make  your  kind  Uncle  James  a  visit? " 
questioned  Elizabeth,  coaxing.  That  was  a  happy 
idea  —  to  have  Edmund  come  for  Charlie  and 
take  the  little  fellow  to  Norwich.  It  would  give 
Edmund  a  bright  holiday,  and  it  would  forestall 
possible  reluctance  on  the  baby's  part. 

So  Edmund  arrived  a  fortnight  later,  with  bluff, 
hale  Tom  as  overseer.  The  day,  I  think,  was  in 
the  late  summer  of  the  year  1839.  Before  the 
coach  drew  up  before  his  mother's  gate,  Edmund 
had  seen  her  and  was  out  of  it.  He  was  in  her 
arms  —  sobbing  —  how  he  sobbed! — he  sobbed 
enough  for  the  bygone  year.  And  afterwards, 
through  all  the  dinner  hour,  he  sat  smiling  bless 
edly  at  her  through  tears  that  would  keep  well 
ing,  —  he,  not  heeding  his  plate,  but  reaching 
under  the  tablecloth  to  pat  her  hand  —  till 
Elizabeth,  mindful  of  how  in  another  day  or  two 
she  was  going  to  put  a  period  to  all  this  joy  of  his 
by  sending  him  from  her,  burst  into  bitter  weep 
ing  and  had  to  leave  the  table.  Then  at  the  last, 
at  the  hour  of  parting,  Tom  was  forced  to  lift 
him  bodily,  he  clung  to  her  so  and  wept  so  wildly, 
and  even  she  reproached  him,  saying,  "  Dearest, 


CAPTAIN   MARRYAT'S   MANTLE      99 

do  you  not  know  that  I  have  no  money  ?    Do  you 
not  know  that  I  am  acting  for  your  good?" 
while    Charlie,    little    weaned    angel,    repeated 
without  a  sigh  her  Farewell  and  followed  Tom 
as  he  was  bidden. 

The  poplars  that  rose  golden  above  his  guar 
dian's  rooftree  in  Norwich  Town  and  caught  the 
setting  sunlight  were  colorless  as  prison  walls  to 
Edmund,  as  he  and  Tom  returned  with  little 
Charlie.  Hope  —  hope  —  hope,  the  heart's  ethe 
real  sun,  was  slowly  sinking  beneath  the  horizon 
of  his  thoughts. 

He  shared  his  bed  with  Charlie  now.  Across 
the  room  stood  a  second  bed  in  which  slept  Al 
and  Hunt  Adams.  The  Stedman  manor  seemed 
more  than  ever  a  house  of  wayfarers  to  Edmund. 
The  inn  seemed  to  have  crept  into  his  own  little 
bedchamber.  But  Charlie  did  not  appear  to  heed 
or  comprehend.  Charlie  was  a  pattern  child. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  lusty.  Having  a  mother, 
he  was  motherless,  and  he  had  never  known 
brother  or  father.  Aunt  Abby  approved  of  him. 
"He  sits  still  and  behaves  himself  all  day  long," 
she  remarked  to  Edmund,  and  gave  Charlie  a 


ioo    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

gingerbread  boy  with  currant  eyes  which  she 
had  made  on  purpose  for  him,  and  which  was  no 
more  troublesome  than  he. 

Underneath  Edmund's  window,  —  the  boys' 
bedchamber  was  the  southeast  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  —  stretched  rows  of  box  and  plats 
of  lavender,  larkspur,  and  a  host  of  flowers.  The 
outer  world  was  passing  fair.  Overhead  in  the 
noonday  sky  were  other  gardens,  wide  reaches 
of  blue  meadow  land,  where  clouds  like  thistle 
down  were  straying;  and  at  night  still  wider 
stretches  of  limitless  dim  gardens,  with  uncounted 
stars  for  flowers  and  with  bands  of  shining  dust 
for  paths. 

Everywhere  in  the  outer  world  there  was  space 
enough  for  thousands  and  thousands  of  little 
boys  to  run  amid,  —  run  amid  and  never  be 
found.  One  night  it  came  about  that  Edmund 
went  to  bed  like  Diddle-dee-dumpling,  my  son 
John,  arrayed  in  his  roundabouts.  That  was 
to  save  him  the  time  of  dressing  at  daybreak. 
At  daybreak,  he  was  climbing  out  of  the  window 
and  running  down  the  road  in  his  green-checked 
pinafore.  He  ran  as  hard  as  he  could  run  because 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S  MANTEB 

he  was  running  away,  and  when  boys  ran  away 
he  supposed  that  they  ran  without  stopping.  He 
reached  the  wharves  on  the  Thames  at  a  little 
after  five  o'clock.  A  schooner  swung  at  the 
farther  dock.  Supporting  himself  against  a  pile 
of  timber  leaned  a  bleared,  bronzed,  tipsy  skipper 
dressed  in  the  ministerial  black  of  a  swallow-tail 
coat  and  plug  hat.  Gold  rings  hung  from  his 
ears.  He  leered  and  lounged  and  accosted  with 
genial  good  will  even  a  truck  of  kegs  which  a 
deckhand  was  shifting. 

"Are  you  a  Sea  Captain?"  inquired  an  appa 
rition  at  his  knee. 

"Right,  sonny!"  cried  the  skipper,  "Captain 
Hudson  of  the  Ann  and  Emily  —  neatest  craft 
afloat  —  due  to  sail  from  this  here  port  at  five- 
thirty  —  precisely." 

You  may  be  sure  that  Edmund  lost  no  time  in 
telling  the  good-natured  captain  his  story.  He 
told  him  that  his  mother  was  a  poor  woman  in 
Newark,  a  widow  who  took  in  washing  for  a  living. 
And  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  help  her.  He 
said  that  he  could  work,  although  he  was  so  little, 
and  if  Captain  Hudson  would  give  him  a  chance 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

to  work  his  passage  to  New  York,  he  would  show 
him  that  he  was  not  afraid  of  hardship.  Captain 
Hudson  was  in  a  generous  mood,  so  aboard  they 
went,  where  Edmund  entered  his  name  in  a  clear, 
firm  hand  —  Henry  Wilson.  Edmund  used  to 
say,  in  after  years,  it  was  singular  that  he  took 
" Henry  Wilson"  for  a  name,  inasmuch  as  when 
he  did  finally  reach  the  great  metropolis,  a  young 
man  bearing  the  name  "Henry  Wilson"  was  one 
of  his  earliest  associates. 

After  the  anchor  was  weighed,  Captain  Hud 
son  and  Henry  Wilson  paced  the  deck. 

"You  walk  better  on  the  boat  than  you  walk 
on  the  land,"  observed  Henry  Wilson.  It  was 
true.  Captain  Hudson,  who  had  pawed  the  air 
now  with  one  foot  and  now  with  the  other  when 
Henry  was  trying  to  help  him  locate  the  gang 
plank,  was  as  steady  as  Gibraltar  the  instant  he 
walked  the  planks.  "The  Almighty  made  my 
legs  to  walk  a  deck,"  said  the  captain.  "I  can't 
seem  to  get  used  to  terry  firmy." 

"Is  terry  firmy  the  gang  plank?"  inquired 
Edmund. 

"Precisely,"  said  the  Captain. 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S   MANTLE     103 

A  fog  like  rain  closed  them  in.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  fore  or  aft,  or  to  port  or  star 
board  ;  there  was  nothing  for  the  Ann  and  Emily 
to  do  but  catch  a  breath  when  she  could  and 
feel  her  way  along  the  channel.  Henry  and 
Captain  Hudson  stood  side  by  side.  Henry  felt 
very  much  at  home. 

"  Ain't  you  got  no  brothers  and  sisters,  sonny  ?" 
inquired  the  Captain. 

"Six  brothers,"  said  Henry.  While  he  was 
having  brothers,  it  occurred  to  him  to  have  some 
sisters;  so  he  added,  "and  six  sisters.  I  am  the 
oldest." 

"Wai,  I  swan!"  cried  the  captain.  "I  reckon 
some  of  them  were  triplets,  warn't  they?" 

"Oh,  they  were  all  triplets,"  replied  Henry. 
It  seemed  the  proper  thing  to  say. 

"Your  pa  left  your  ma  with  her  hands  full; 
there's  no  gainsaying  that." 

"He  couldn't  help  it,"  spoke  up  Henry  ear 
nestly.  He  had  a  suspicion  that  the  captain 
might  not  think  well  of  his  father.  "He  truly 
couldn't,"  he  repeated,  "He  died  of  acussump- 
tion!" 


io4    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"Wai!"  ejaculated  Captain  Hudson.  His 
bleared  eyes  narrowed.  The  twinkle  at  the  cor 
ners  of  his  lids  faded  into  crow's  feet.  "I  had  a 
little  sister,"  he  said  slowly,  "pert  as  you  be; 
and  pretty?  Lord  !  I'd  have  put  my  little  Lizzie 
against  the  Queen  of  England ;  and  she  died  of  a 
cussumption  too !" 

They  took  a  turn  in  silent  sympathy. 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  have  rings  in  my  ears," 
commented  Henry  in  a  moment.  "But  I  think 
that  it  is  much  nicer  to  have  rings  in  your  ears 
than  in  your  nose,"  he  hastened  to  add,  lest  he 
seem  to  reflect  unfavorably  on  the  skipper's 
taste.  "Bulls  have  rings  in  their  noses.  You 
can  make  a  bull  do  anything  —  if  you  get  him 
by  the  nose !  We  have  a  sow  that  has  a  ring  in 
her  snout.  I  think  it  is  shocking.  It  is  against 
Nature.  God  gave  the  sow  her  snout  to  root 
with  for  her  young.  My  uncle  told  me  that  sows 
do  not  mind  it.  But  I  said,  'How  do  you  know? 
Are  you  a  sow?'  'Well,'  said  he,  'the  bulls  do 
not  mind  it.'  And  I  said,  'Wouldn't  you  mind 
it,  if  you  had  a  ring  in  your  nose,  and  were  made 
to  walk  along  beside  a  cow  which  is  Aunt  Eunice, 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S  MANTLE     105 

because  cows  are  ladies?7  'I  have  matters  of 
importance  to  attend  to/  said  my  uncle.  'That 
is  what  the  bull  thinks,'  I  said.  'When  you 
know  more,  you  will  talk  less/  said  my  uncle. 
My  uncle  says  that  I  am  a  bad  boy." 

"A  nice  little  nipper  like  you  —  a  bad  boy?" 
repeated  the  skipper.  He  patted  the  misty  head. 
"Your  uncle  must  be  a  rum  one !" 

Henry  did  not  understand,  but  he  was  not 
to  be  outdone.  He  took  pride  in  all  his  relatives 
and  friends.  He  sprang  like  a  trout  to  the  fly. 
"Yes,  he  is/'  he  said  brightly ;  "and  he's  a  deacon 
too." 

"Lord  Almighty—" 

"Do  you  ever  go  to  Conference  Meeting?" 
inquired  Henry.  "I  think  you  would  enjoy 
listening  to  Deacon  Sterry  pray  —  he  hems  and 
haws  so.  But  I  don't  think  you  would  care  for 
Deacon  Hyde ;  he  prays  so  easily.  I  think  you 
are  a  very  kind  man,  Captain  Hudson;  I  think 
you  would  be  a  deacon  if  you  lived  on  land. 
We  pray  a  great  deal  at  our  house.  We  pray 
before  each  meal,  and  we  pray  mornings  and 
nights,  and  when  we  go  to  bed  we  pray, 


io6     A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

and  we  pray  all  day  Sundays  mostly.  Do  you 
pray?" 

"  Praying's  a  kind  of  a  habit/'  commented  Cap 
tain  Hudson. 

"I've  heard  you  say  'Lord  God'  several  times 
and  then  finish  to  yourself.  When  my  uncle 
isn't  home,  we  have  silent  prayer.  I  didn't 
say  my  prayers  this  morning.  I  forgot." 

The  skipper  closed  his  eyes.  Surrounded  by 
Henry's  reminiscences  of  his  praying  relations, 
he  decided  that  silent  prayer  was  the  better  part 
of  valor. 

Henry  likewise  closed  his  eyes.  They  sat,  face 
to  face,  with  lids  screwed  tight,  and  lips  moving 
nimbly.  Presently  Henry  said  "Amen",  and 
they  both  arose. 

"Suppose  we  go  below  and  have  a  snack,"  said 
the  captain,  and  down  they  went,  hand  in  hand. 

The  cook  was  hashing  corned  beef  and  cold  pota 
toes.  He  served  it  in  the  chopping  bowl  in  which 
it  was  chopped.  The  crew  sat  around  a  bare 
table.  The  first  thrust  at  the  hash  was  reserved 
for  the  captain,  because  of  his  rank ;  the  crew 
followed  suit.  There  were  not  knives  enough 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S   MANTLE     107 

to  go  around,  but  Captain  Hudson  gave  Henry 
a  knife,  because  Henry  was  his  guest.  Captain 
Hudson  left  the  fork  to  the  bo'swain,  and  the  bo'- 
swain  spiked  the  hash  well  enough  by  the  help  of 
thumb  and  forefinger.  Henry  noted  that  each 
seaman,  when  waiting  for  a  chance  at  the  dish, 
sat  with  his  knife  grasped  midway  between  hilt 
and  blade  and  with  the  hilt  planted  upright  on 
the  greasy  boards;  so  he  did  likewise,  bringing 
his  knife  down  with  a  manly  vigor  that  made  the 
wood  resound. 

The  half  tipsy  skipper,  the  sailors  reeking  of 
vile  tobacco,  the  crude  hash,  the  close  air,  and  the 
foul  steam  of  fog- wet  tarpaulin,  were  a  part  of 
the  play  to  Henry.  He  fell  to  with  a  will.  He 
plied  his  knife  as  if  he  had  been  born  with  a  blade 
in  his  mouth. 

While  breakfast  was  under  way,  the  Ann  and 
Emily  ran  her  nose  into  the  shoals  near  Hunting- 
ton  Works,  two  and  a  half  miles  down-stream ; 
and  on  the  shoals  she  stuck. 

Nothing  could  be  done  but  wait  for  the  tide 
to  flood.  But  Edmund  —  I  mean  Henry  —  did 
not  mind  lying  by  in  the  least.  He  was  free, 


io8    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

and  he  was  happy.  It  was  so  beautiful  to  be 
free.  He  paced  the  decks  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  Under  his  mist-frosted  hair,  his  color 
grew.  To  be  free  was  more  beautiful  than  any 
thing  in  the  world.  To  be  out  of  doors  in  the 
wet  and  weather  all  by  himself,  and  with  none 
to  call  or  chide  him  was  the  most  wonderful  hap 
pening,  the  most  marvelous  end  that  could  pos 
sibly  have  come  to  his  wearisome  journey.  He 
began  to  question  how  it  was  that  he  had  never 
before  run  away.  He  might  just  as  well  have 
run  away  a  hundred  times.  He  told  himself 
that  it  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.  All 
one  had  to  do  was  to  get  up  at  dawn,  and  slip 
out,  and  run  and  run  till  one  came  to  the  river. 
And  to  think  that  he  was  going  to  his  mother ! 
That  was  the  best  of  it  all.  He  had  been  very 
stupid  not  to  guess  that  of  course  his  loved  mother 
would  have  had  him  stay  with  her  if  she  had 
had  money  enough ;  he  had  been  very  unkind  not 
to  think  of  it.  He  had  been  ungrateful  to  cry 
and  cling  to  her,  —  as  if  she  could  help  sending 
him  to  Norwich  Town,  —  when  she  was  acting 
for  his  good.  Her  kin  in  New  Jersey  might  beat 


CAPTAIN  MARRYATS   MANTLE     109 

him,  but  no  one  save  she  could  drive  him  off 
again,  and  when  she  saw  how  he  could  earn  his 
bread  so  that  his  board  did  not  cost  her  a  penny, 
she  would  let  him  live  with  her.  He  was  certain 
of  it.  Besides  working  for  his  own  lodging,  he 
would  work  for  her  too.  It  was  easy  to  earn 
one's  living !  Was  he  not  earning  his  passage 
that  very  moment  ? 

Now  while  Henry  Wilson,  as  quiet  as  the  Ann 
and  Emily  herself,  lay  waiting  for  the  tide  to  turn, 
the  orderly  Stedman  household  was  thoroughly 
upset. 

" Where  is  Edmund?"  asked  his  guardian. 
Not  till  the  patriarch  was  closing  the  Bible  at 
family  prayers  did  he  discover  that  his  nephew 
was  missing. 

Aunt  Eunice  looked  at  Aunt  Abby  and  Aunt 
Abby  looked  at  Annie.  No  one  knew.  None  of 
the  mothers  in  Israel  had  missed  him.  Only  the 
Adams  boys  sat  stiff  and  straight ;  little  Turville's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  space,  and  he  was  swallowing 
rapidly. 

"Turville,".  said  Deacon  Stedman,  "tell  Ed 
mund  to  come  to  me  at  once." 


no    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

"I  — I  — can't,  Sir- 

"Obey  me  instantly." 

Turville  wound  up  his  hands  in  the  hem  of  his 
jacket,  and  twisted  his  toes  around  the  chair  leg. 

"He's  runned  away/'  he  said  weakly. 

"Run  away?"  cried  Deacon  Stedman.  "Why 
should  he  run  away,  I  would  like  to  know?" 
His  face  paled.  "Where  did  he  run?"  he  ques 
tioned. 

"To  the  Port,  Sir.  We  were  all  going  to  run 
away,  Sir,  but  we  were  scart,  Sir." 

"Scart!"  repeated  the  deacon.  "Scart  of 
what?" 

"Scart  of  you,  Sir." 

"Let  us  implore  the  Divine  Blessing,"  said 
Deacon  Stedman.  But  he  left  the  room  as  soon 
as  he  said  "Amen."  He  was  in  a  state  of  mind, 
you  may  be  sure.  It  would  make  a  seven-days' 
scandal  for  him  with  his  reputation  of  fatherly 
oversight  to  have  his  charges  running  away.  He 
drove  to  the  Landing  without  pausing  for  breath. 
At  the  wharves,  he  held  up  the  first  lounger. 

"Halt!"  he  cried  sharply.  "Have  you  seen 
my  nephew?" 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S   MANTLE     in 

11  Don't  know  who  your  nephew  is,  Jedge," 
said  the  tar;  "but  if  he  is  a  right  handsome 
gentlemanly  little  chap  in  a  green  tier,  and  as 
dern  lively  as  old  Gooseberry  - 

"That's  my  nephew  !"  cried  the  deacon,  thrash 
ing  with  his  cane  among  the  kegs  and  timber  as 
if  to  beat  the  boy  out  of  cover. 

"He  sailed  in  the  Ann  and  Emily,  Captain 
Hudson  master,  at  six  o'clock  this  morning." 

The  deacon,  clutching  and  puffing,  clambered 
down  into  a  skiff.  "Overtake  the  Ann  and 
Emily,  and  I'll  pay  you  well,"  he  said  shortly. 

"I'll  row  you,  old  gent;  now  don't  you  be 
anxious.  We  won't  be  long  in  overtaking  her 
-not  in  this  fog." 

The  skiff,  loosed  from  her  moorings,  shot  into 
the  river. 

Down-stream,  at  Huntington's  Shoals,  the 
rain  was  falling  fast  and  fine.  The  rain  was  as 
pleasant  as  the  mist.  The  mist  had  gathered  on 
Henry's  brow  till  it  formed  into  frail  fingers  that 
stole  softly  down  his  cheek.  But  the  raindrops 
pattered  lightly  on  his  eyelids  like  his  mother's 
fingers  tapping  upon  a  pane.  He  had  left  off 


ii2    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

thinking  altogether,  while  listening  to  the  long- 
drawn,  gurgling  swirl  of  the  slowly  ebbing  tide. 
He  heard  a  myriad  of  voices  in  its  murmur;  he 
saw  a  world  of  colors  in  its  quiet,  constant  foam, 
—  in  the  eel  grass  stretching  seaward  —  in  the 
drift  and  waste  that  came  sailing  from  the  hidden 
town  and  was  swept  outward  to  the  hidden  sea. 
When  he  was  drenched  to  the  skin,  Captain 
Hudson  called  to  him  to  go  below  and  keep  dry. 
So  he  trotted  down,  as  he  was  told.  He  could 
still  hear  the  whispering  music  of  the  water. 
With  his  head  resting  on  the  table  and  with  his 
eyes  closed,  he  sat  hearkening  to  it  and  talking 
back  to  it.  After  a  while,  chug,  chug,  came  a 
sound  of  little  waves  slapping  the  ship's  side. 
The  sound  was  accompanied  by  a  muffled  dipping 
echo,  as  if  some  fabled  sea-horse  was  galloping 
on  the  crests.  And  then  came  a  voice  —  a  cry 
in  the  fog,  and  the  skipper's  answering  call. 

" Ship  ahoy!" 

"Ahoy!" 

The  cabin  floor  dropped  under  Edmund's  feet. 
His  hopes  sank  to  the  bottom  of  the  Thames. 
He  knew  that  voice,  —  it  was  his  uncle's. 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S   MANTLE     113 

You  recall  how  blindly  Cinderella  ran  when 
midnight  overtook  her  at  the  prince's  ball,  and 
her  brave  disguise  faded  into  rags?  Well,  the 
mystic  hour  had  tolled  for  the  runaway  in  the 
cabin;  he  was  no  longer  the  resourceful,  self-re 
liant  Henry  Wilson,  but  little  Edmund  Clarence 
Stedman,  and  he  came  up  the  hatchway  to  the 
deck  ready,  in  a  child's  unconsciousness  of  power, 
to  give  himself  up  at  once. 

The  skiff  was  lying  alongside  the  Ann  and  Emily, 
riding  easy  in  the  calm.  Deacon  Stedman  had 
dragged  himself  up  to  the  gunwale,  but  he  could 
not  hoist  himself  over  the  beam.  That  portion 
of  his  person  bounded  by  his  waistcoat  was  too 
portly  an  obstacle  to  be  easily  managed.  There 
he  was,  gripping  on  with  both  his  hands,  his  toes 
in  the  skiff,  his  head  above  the  ship's  gunwale, 
steaming  with  exertion,  beside  himself  with  the 
uncertainty  of  his  footing,  and  glaring  at  Edmund. 

Edmund  stood  like  a  seaman  with  his  feet  set 
wide  apart. 

"So  you  are  the  young  gentleman  that  was 
going  to  run  away  ?  "  said  the  deacon,  when  he  could 
command  his  wind.  "Why  did  you  run  away?" 


ii4    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"  Because,  Sir,  no  one  but  Annie  ever  speaks 
kindly  to  me,  Sir,  and  because  I  wanted  my 
mother." 

"I  thought  you  wanted  to  be  a  great  man." 

"  I  do,  Sir." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  great  man  running 
away?" 

"Yes,  Sir;    Captain  Marryat." 

"H'm  !  Well,  my  young  Captain  Marryat,  you 
step  down  into  this  skiff  just  as  fast  as  you  can." 

Neither  spoke  during  the  hour's  row  to  Nor 
wich,  —  a  long  hard  pull  against  the  tide.  When 
they  stepped  foot  on  the  wharf  at  the  Landing, 
the  rain  was  driving  faster  and  finer  than  ever. 

"Edmund,"  said  his  uncle,  while  a  twinkle 
lit  his  steely  eye,  "you  are  so  small  and  so  spry 
that  I  believe  you  could  run  between  the  rain 
drops  from  the  Landing  to  the  Green  without 
getting  wet.  However,"  he  added,  and  grasped 
Edmund  by  the  hand.  He  was  too  wary  to  give 
his  nephew  a  chance  to  prove  his  agility  to  skip 
and  slip  between  the  drops.  He  kept  fast  hold 
of  him,  and  hand  in  hand,  prodigal  and  guardian 
reached  home. 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT'S  MANTLE    115 

"  Can't  somebody  in  the  house  mother  the  lad 
a  little?"  Edmund  heard  his  uncle  ask,  as  that 
gentleman  strode  into  the  kitchen  after  sending 
Edmund  to  his  room  for  dry  clothes. 

"He's  had  just  as  much  mothering  as  my  chil 
dren  ever  had/'  replied  Eunice. 

"But  can't  you  see  that  he's  different  from  our 
boys;  he  is  more  spirited,"  said  the  deacon 
patiently  and  yet  in  desperation. 

"He  is  the  Devil!"  spoke  up  Aunt  Abby 
decisively. 

"Abby  —  Abby — "  remonstrated  the  deacon. 

Abby  wiped  her  flushed  face  with  her  apron. 
"You  need  not  Abby  me,  James,"  she  said  firmly. 

"Abby,"  interposed  the  deacon,  kindling,  "I 
wish  you  to  understand  —  I  wish  every  one  of 
this  household  to  understand  —  that  the  lad  is 
wretchedly  unhappy,  and  that  it  is  the  talk  of 
the  neighborhood.  It  seems  to  me  that  each 
one  of  us  might  be  a  trifle  more  lenient  with  him 
—  a  trifle  less  ready  to  push  him  to  the  wall." 

It  was  an  unheard-of  event  for  Deacon  Sted- 
man  to  interfere  with  the  rule  of  the  ladies,  and 
in  the  silence  that  followed  his  departure  from 


n6    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

the  kitchen,  Edmund  felt  that  his  own  course  was 
justified. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  Annie  slipped  into 
Edmund's  room,  and  kneeling  before  him,  called 
him  her  bad,  bad  boy,  and  mopped  his  wet  hair, 
and  kissing  him,  tossed  his  pinafore  into  the 
entry,  and  told  him  that  he  need  not  wear  it  any 
more,  because  he  was  too  large;  and  that  she 
was  going  to  tell  her  father.  But  she  sat  in  the 
chair  by  the  door  a  long  time,  with  a  look  in  her 
eyes  —  so  vague  and  yet  so  gentle. 


IX 

TWILIGHT  AND  EVENING  STAR 

LITTLE  Charlie,  too,  went  on  a  voyage  some 
years  later.  He  did  not  run  away.  Deacon 
Stedman,  who  was  his  guardian  no  less  than 
Edmund's,  found  a  ship  for  him  on  which  to  em 
bark  and  helped  him  off.  Charlie  signed  for  a 
three-and-one-half-year  whaling  voyage  with  Cap 
tain  Potter,  whose  hide  was  as  tough  as  a  walrus's, 
and  who  was  as  much  at  home  on  an  ice  floe  as 
is  a  polar  bear.  Although  Charlie  reached  a 
man's  estate,  he  reached  it  without  a  man's 
strength,  and  in  those  days  folk  believed  that 
to  be  driven  through  and  through  with  salt  and 
sleet,  to  fight  for  life  against  the  elements,  was 
a  cure-all  for  youthful  ailments;  but  the  trip 
must  be  long  and  rigorous  to  be  effectual. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Charlie  bunked  with 
South  Sea  Islanders  and  vermin,  because  his 


n8    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

guardian  thought  it  best,  —  Charlie,  a  gentle, 
studious,  brave  youth,  too  gently  born  to  be 
reared  roughly.  All  the  crew  deserted  save  he. 
"And  he  sailed,  and  he  sailed,"  past  many  a 
strange  land  and  stranger  people;  he  saw  peli 
cans  and  flamingoes  that  flew  in  clouds  of  pink 
and  white  and,  settling,  made  islands  with  their 
wings ;  he  saw  trustful  seals  vacant-eyed  as  little 
children  and  too  ignorant  of  ill  to  be  affrighted; 
he  saw  great  whales 

"come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  forever  and  aye." 

It  was  to  slaughter  these  dumb  creatures  that 
the  good  ship  Mount  Wollaston  wandered  to  and 
fro,  from  snow  to  heat;  and  Captain  Potter  fell 
upon  them  lustily.  But  Charlie  had  little  heart 
for  taking  life.  Was  life  not  what  he  sought? 

Like  Edmund,  Charlie  was  fond  of  books; 
and  Edmund,  his  big  brother  who  loved  him, 
gave  him  his  own  copy  of  Scott  to  take  with 
him. 

Charlie  sailed  farther  than  Edmund  had  ever 
dreamed  of  sailing.  Between  whiles  he  sojourned 


TWILIGHT  AND   EVENING  STAR    119 

in  cities  where  the  rain  fell  for  weeks  together, 
yet  where  the  sun  seemed  always  overhead,  just 
as  on  Robinson  Crusoe's  island.  Yet  before  his 
journeyings  were  half-way  done,  he  was  ponder 
ing  over  a  longer  voyage  and  longing  to  reach 
home  and  say  good-by  to  Edmund.  He  was  in 
fear  that  he  would  not  reach  home  in  time.  At 
night  he  tossed  in  his  bunk,  he  was  so  fearful. 

But  Charlie  reached  New  York  at  last !  And 
he  brought  with  him  Edmund's  book  —  per 
meated  from  cover  to  cover  with  sperm  oil.  He 
brought  too,  as  a  gift  to  Edmund,  his  own  log, 
a  journal  in  which,  as  a  seaman,  he  had  entered 
each  day's  course  and  weather  and  spoil.  Ever 
afterwards  Edmund  doubly  prized  his  copy  of 
Scott ;  and  he  prized  the  logbook,  —  so  neat,  so 
painstaking,  so  like  a  gentleman's  and  a  scholar's. 

Charlie,  who  went  away  as  cabin  boy,  returned 
as  first  mate.  He  was  less  sunny-lipped  than 
Edmund,  less  erect  and  mischievous,  —  but  then 
you  see  he  had  that  still  longer  journey  to  muse 
upon.  Perhaps  his  knowledge  of  his  father  made 
him  thoughtful.  It  may  seem  strange,  but  it  is 
true  that  although  Charlie  did  not  remember 


120    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

his  father,  or  think  at  all  of  him  when  he  was  a 
little  lad,  yet  on  the  last  voyage  homeward  he 
thought  of  him  every  hour. 

You  may  be  sure  that  pretty  Elizabeth,  who 
at  this  time  was  sight-seeing  in  Paris,  was  proud 
of  him.  I  could  tell  you  much  of  her  gay  life  at 
the  Court  of  Italy,  and  of  her  home  in  Florence, 
circled  by  the  Brownings  and  their  brilliant  co 
terie.  His  Uncle  James  too  was  proud  of  him; 
and  so  was  Edmund. 

But  Charlie  never  returned  to  Norwich  to  the 
only  hearth  that  he  had  known.  Norwich  seemed 
a  hopelessly  long  way  to  him  now  that  it  was  so 
near.  Edmund  went  to  the  ship  to  meet  him, 
and  Charlie  laid  his  head  down  on  Edmund's 
shoulder  thinking  to  rest  a  little  while — per 
haps  through  the  summer  —  in  the  house  of  his 
mother's  kin  in  Brooklyn,  —  and  then  go  on  to 
Norwich  Town. 

Elizabeth's  kinsmen  wrote  to  her,  and  Ed 
mund  wrote.  But  when  the  mother  opened 
Edmund's  letter,  a  lock  of  hair  dropped  from  it, 
and  then  she  knew  that  Charlie  —  her  baby  — 
had  already  set  sail  for  the  Undiscovered  Country. 


X 

PRINCE  FLORIZEL  ON  HIS  TRAVELS 

THE  noise  of  Edmund's  attempt  to  run  away, 
and  of  his  failure,  spread  through  Norwich  Town. 
"Hello,  Captain  Marryat!"  "How's  the  fog, 
Captain  Marryat!"  "Ahoy  there,  Captain 
Marryat!"  were  the  greetings  that  belayed  him 
as  he  sauntered  around  the  Green  on  his  return 
to  private  life. 

He  passed  by  the  salutations  of  his  townfolk 
with  dreamy  unconcern.  His  mind,  unoccupied 
for  the  nonce  by  its  own  inventions,  drifted.  It 
wanted  only  the  current  of  an  idea  to  quicken  and 
direct  its  motions.  He  passed  the  Coit  house, 
—  Mr.  Coit's  son  had  given  a  party  in  the  spring. 
Tom  and  Ed  Harland  had  given  a  party;  the 
Spaldings,  the  Hydes,  the  Armses,  the  Pecks,  the 
Lathrops,  the  Clevelands  —  every  boy  and  girl 
of  his  acquaintance  had  given  a  party.  Edmund 


122    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

came  to  a  dead  stop.  He  only  was  left.  Why 
had  he  never  given  a  party !  Why  had  it  not 
occurred  to  him  how  remiss  he  was !  He  had  been 
unpardonably  rude. 

He  lifted  the  latch  of  Mr.  Spalding's  gate  and 
walked  in.  Mrs.  Spalding  herself  answered  his 
knock. 

"I  have  come  to  invite  you  to  my  party  — 
you  and  your  family!'7  he  announced,  a  little 
short  of  wind. 

"No!  Indeed?  What  time  is  your  party  to 
be?"  said  Mrs.  Spalding. 

What  time?  The  question  of  the  time  had 
not  occurred  to  Edmund.  "At  five  o'clock  to 
day,"  he  answered;  and  suddenly  sighed  in  the 
relief  of  having  settled  the  hour  so  easily.  "  Good- 
by!"  He  walked  off. 

He  came  upon  Lady  Louisa  Huntington  cross 
ing  the  sidewalk.  "You  are  please  to  come  to 
my  party  —  you  and  your  friends.  It  is  to  be  at 
five  o'clock,"  he  announced  instantly. 

"Of  course  we  will  come.  How  very  kind  of 
your  uncle  and  aunt.  I  am  so  surprised,"  said 
Lady  Louisa. 


FLORIZEL  ON  HIS  TRAVELS       123 

"I  am  inviting  all  the  old  families,"  exclaimed 
Edmund,  and  rosy  with  hospitality,  ran  on. 
The  party  was  progressing  incredibly  well.  It 
was  much  easier  giving  a  party  than  he  would 
have  supposed.  Details  settled  themselves.  At 
the  Cleveland  house  no  one  was  in  sight.  He 
walked  to  the  front  door  as  was  proper,  consider 
ing  the  occasion.  He  was  growing  confident  and 
he  pulled  the  bell-handle  boldly. 

No  one  came. 

He  would  have  run  around  to  the  back  door 
but  for  Mr.  Peck's  manservant,  who  was  watch 
ing  him  from  across  the  Green.  He  pulled  the 
handle  again. 

Still  no  answer.  Perhaps  the  bell  rang  in  the 
kitchen,  and  he  had  not  pulled  hard  enough. 
He  laid  hold  of  the  handle  with  both  hands; 
he  set  his  feet  against  the  house;  he  pulled 
manfully. 

Out  came  the  bell-handle;  it  came  out  alto 
gether  ;  wire  came  out  after  it  —  lots  of  wire.  But 
the  bell  did  not  ring,  so  he  kept  pulling  the  wire. 

Ting-a-ling!  Ting-a-ling-ling !  The  bell  rang 
at  last.  How  fortunate!  It  would  never  have 


124    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

done  to  have  slighted  the  Clevelands.  As  he 
pulled  on  the  wire,  he  could  hear  the  bell  coming 
along  the  floor  towards  him.  There  was  a  silence 
and  a  hitch;  the  bell  had  caught.  He  gave  the 
wire  as  skilful  a  yank  as  if  he  were  fishing,  and  his 
line  had  caught  on  a  snag.  He  heard  a  chair  go 
over,  then  along  came  the  bell  again.  Ting-a- 
ling-ling !  Ting-a-ling-ling-ling-ling !  Along  came 
Mrs.  Cleveland;  Josh  the  hired  man;  Angelina 
the  maidservant;  Scipio  the  dog,  too  scared  to 
bark  and  too  fascinated  to  run  away.  Edmund 
faced  them. 

"I  am  glad  you  heard  the  bell,"  he  said  with 
a  swift  sigh. 

"There  have  been  times  when  I  have  not  heard 
it,  but  I  heard  it  this  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Cleve 
land  in  a  very  peculiar  tone. 

"I  had  to  pull  it  for  quite  a  while  before  I 
could  make  it  ring,"  he  explained  politely.  He 
handed  her  the  handle.  "I  knew  that  you  could 
not  be  deef  —  not  at  your  age,"  he  added. 

Mrs.  Cleveland  laughed  outright. 

He  did  not  know  why  Mrs.  Cleveland  laughed, 
but  he  laughed  too.  He  was  so  happy  to  be  happy. 


FLORIZEL  ON  HIS  TRAVELS       125 

"I  came  to  invite  you  to  my  party,  Mrs.  Cleve 
land,"  he  said.  He  felt  sorry  for  Josh  and  Ange 
lina.  "I  would  like  to  invite  Josh  and  Xina 
—  but  it  is  the  judge's  party  too,  and  I  am 
inviting  only  those  whom"  —  He  did  not 
know  how  to  finish.  He  looked  from  Mrs. 
Cleveland  to  Angelina  and  back  again  at  Mrs. 
Cleveland,  in  pain  and  yet  aware  that  it  would  not 
do  to  invite  the  hired  help.  " — those  whom  — 
those  whom"  —  he  repeated,  distressed  and  dis 
traught  ;  "  those  —  whom  —  God  —  hath  — joined 
together  —  let  —  no  —  man  —  put  —  asunder ! " 
he  ended  in  a  flash  of  delight  at  escaping  from  his 
dilemma. 

For  the  credit  of  the  Stedman  family,  he  went 
up  one  side  of  the  Green,  circled  the  triangle,  and 
came  down  along  the  Around-Town  road. 

As  he  neared  the  parsonage  and  was  leaving 
the  sidewalk  for  the  gutter,  in  order  to  pass  by 
on  the  other  side  like  a  true  Levite,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  at  all  functions  of  importance  the 
clergy  was  present.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 
The  parson  must  be  invited.  He  sat  down  on 
the  wall  and  dusted  his  boots  with  a  mullein  leaf, 


i26    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

wiping  the  soles  as  nicely  as  the  tops.  He  tip 
toed  along  on  the  grass  to  keep  clean  and  lifted 
the  massive  knocker.  There  was  one  loud,  round, 
firm,  full  knock.  He  was  pleased  with  it.  It 
betokened  business. 

"I  have  a  message  for  the  parson,"  said  Ed 
mund  to  the  woman  who  came  to  the  door. 

"The  parson  is  in  his  study.  What  name  shall 
I  say?" 

Edmund  knew  that  the  woman  knew  who  he  was. 
Why  did  she  ask  that  question?  "You  may  tell 
him  that  it  is  Judge  Stedman's  nephew/'  he  an 
swered  and  gulped  several  times.  He  was  scarlet. 

"You  are  to  walk  into  the  library,"  announced 
the  woman,  after  leaving  him  for  an  interminable 
time. 

The  parson  was  seated  at  his  desk,  writing. 

Edmund  placed  himself  in  a  chair  next  to  the 
door  and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  He  watched 
the  sand  in  the  hourglass  falling  —  falling  — 
falling.  When  at  length  the  parson  spoke,  Ed 
mund  jumped  quite  out  of  his  chair.  He  stood 
up  as  if  that  were  what  he  had  been  intending  to 
do  right  along. 


FLORIZEL  ON  HIS  TRAVELS       127 

The  parson  said,  "Bubble,  what  is  your 
errand?"  The  parson  called  all  the  boys 
"Bubbie"  and  all  the  girls  "Sissie." 

"I  have  come  to  ask  you,"  Edmund  said  and 
then  faltered.  He  gulped  and  began  again, 
adopting  a  more  official  form.  "We  have  come 
to  invite  you  to  our  party.  We  are  going  to  have 
the  very  best  food  to  eat.  The  Judge  would  like 
you  to  invoke  the  Divine  Blessing!" 

The  parson  eyed  Edmund  —  and  Edmund 
eyed  the  parson ! 

"At  what  hour  is  the  party  to  be?"  inquired 
the  parson. 

Edmund's  wits  left  him.  He  could  not  re 
member  what  hour  he  had  told  Lady  Louisa ! 
"It  is  a  kind  of  continuous  party,"  he  said  help 
lessly. 

"What!"  thundered  the  parson  in  the  tone 
which  he  used  when  he  was  denouncing  sinners 
from  the  pulpit  or  demanding,  "Why  will  ye  die  !" 

Edmund  took  a  step  toward  the  door.  "If 
you  come  when  the  Ladies  Huntington  come, 
you  will  be  in  plenty  of  time,"  he  replied,  to  his 
own  unexpected  relief. 


128    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

The  parson  cast  a  keen  glance  at  the  rug  upon 
which  Edmund  had  stood  the  minute  earlier,  to 
see  if  he  had  tracked  any  dust  into  the  house. 
Every  strand  was  fleckless.  His  eye  returned 
to  the  doorway.  Edmund  was  gone. 

Wing-footed  little  Iris  that  Edmund  was,  he 
never  made  a  swifter  exit  than  from  the  parsonage. 

On  the  road  again,  his  quickened  heartbeats 
slackened;  his  color  dropped;  he  studied  the 
scenery.  North,  west,  south,  claimed  his  pen 
sive,  loving,  lingering  gaze ;  the  cold  height  of  Gal 
lows  Hill  with  the  storm-racked  pines  upon  it ;  the 
feathery  stairway  of  fern  and  moss  behind  Mr. 
Peck's  tavern,  down  which  the  rivulets  sprang 
as  if  with  feet  and  up  which  the  pale  mists  from 
the  burial  ground  climbed  at  night  like  troops  of 
childish  ghosts  striving  to  reach  their  oldtime 
playground;  the  meetinghouse  rocks  with  the 
meadow  lands  beyond  them  dipping  into  pools 
of  sunlight  and  song.  He  kept  his  eyes  averted 
from  the  east.  The  glimpse  of  the  Stedman 
manor  and  the  blue  smoke  mounting  comfortably 
from  the  kitchen  chimney  did  not  appear  to  be 
a  subject  of  pleasing  contemplation.  Yet  the  in- 


FLORIZEL  ON  HIS  TRAVELS       129 

evi table  was  before  him.  He  arrived  at  the 
Stedman  doorsill  at  last,  despite  his  quiet  pace, 
and  entered  the  kitchen  with  as  brave  a  front  as 
he  could  muster.  He  was  beginning  to  have 
his  doubts. 

It  was  baking  day;  his  Aunt  Abby  was  just 
about  to  try  a  card  of  gingerbread  with  a  wisp. 
"Don't  make  a  draught,  Edmund !"  cried  the 
good  lady. 

"I  think  it  will  taste  very  nice,"  commented 
Edmund.  Innocency  and  bravado  —  mixed  but 
not  mingled  —  streaked  his  cheek  with  white 
and  red. 

Aunt  Abby,  glancing  over  her  shoulder,  caught 
sight  of  his  face,  and  forgetful  of  her  gingerbread, 
turned  upon  him. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to,  Edmund;  you 
have  been  into  some  mischief !  I  know  you." 

"I  think  gingerbread  is  ever  so  much  nicer 
than  layer  cake  for  a  party,"  he  said,  sighing. 
"I  don't  like  layer  cake.  Layer  cake  makes  me 
sick  to  my  stomach." 

"Who  is  going  to  have  a  party?"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Abby.  She  had  never  been  sure  of  what 


130    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

was  happening  since  the  day  that  Edmund  came 
to  town. 

"I  am  going  to  have  a  party  —  a  surprise 
party.  I  have  invited  them." 

"You?" 

He  nodded. 

She  dropped  into  a  chair,  then  rallied  sharply, 
brought  to  by  the  thought  of  Tom,  Dick,  and 
Harry. 

"Whom  have  you  invited?"  she  questioned 
anxiously. 

"All  the  bloods,"  said  her  nephew  solidly. 

Within  five  minutes,  Eunice,  Jerusha,  Mary, 
Annie  —  all  the  womenfolk  —  were  in  the  kitchen 
beating  eggs,  greasing  tins,  creaming  butter.  No 
family  in  the  county  stood  higher  socially  than 
Judge  Stedman's.  The  party  was  upon  them; 
there  was  no  help  for  it.  For  the  honor  of  the 
family,  the  party  should  be  received  and  enter 
tained  befitting  Stedman  traditions. 

If  Edmund  had  been  a  little  bird  listening  to 
a  sermon  by  Saint  Francis  he  could  not  have  been 
more  sweetly  silent  and  attentive  during  the  rest 
of  the  forenoon.  Only  once  did  he  offer  to  cheep. 


FLORIZEL  ON  HIS  TRAVELS       131 

When  Aunt  Eunice  was  searching  in  the  preserve 
closet  for  a  particular  bottle  of  raspberry  vinegar, 
his  little  face,  all  anxiety,  peered  through  the 
dusk  of  the  closet  into  the  ray  of  the  tallow  dip. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  we  might  give  the  par 
son  a  little  Barbadoes?"  he  questioned  earnestly. 
"  The  captain  always  gives  him  a  little  Barbadoes." 

By  five  o'clock  the  most  extensive,  elaborate, 
and  merry  lawn  party  in  town  history  was 
under  way  in  Deacon  Stedman's  orchard,  and 
Edmund,  forgotten  and  overlooked  by  his  elders, 
flitted  to  and  fro,  gay  as  a  bird,  glad  as  the  dawn, 
instant  in  season  and  out  of  season,  wild  with 
pride  and  glee ;  handing  Lady  Louisa  a  cate 
and  cousin  Lucrece  a  raspberry  vinegar.  Ah, 
what  a  party  he  was  giving ! 

"Bent  almost  double, 

Deaf  as  a  witch, 
Gout  her  chief  trouble  — 
Just  as  if  rich. 

Greeting  her  next  of  kin's 

Nephew  or  niece,  - 
Foolish  old,  prating  old 

Cousin  Lucrece!" 


132    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

In  the  horse  sheds  behind  the  meetinghouse, 
he  told  the  fellows  about  it  afterwards.  "That 
party  was  my  own  concern ,"  he  explained  grandly. 

" When  are  you  going  to  give  another?" 
inquired  Hallet  Junior,  who,  like  poor  Josh,  was 
not  elected  as  one  of  the  "bloods"  on  the  first 
count,  and  was  looking  forward  to  a  possible  sec 
ond  chance. 

"Can't  just  tell  whether  I  will  give  another," 
said  Edmund.  "Next  week  I  am  going  to  take 
the  deacon  with  me  to  Hartford  to  visit  my 
grandfather.  My  Grandfather  Stedman  has  a 
lot  of  money.  He  owns  a  bankbook.  I  have 
seen  it." 

"Are  you  going  to  bring  us  anything?"  in 
quired  Legs  Porter.  A  topless  opinion  of  Ed 
mund's  munificence  was  beginning  to  bedizen  all 
minds  with  dreams  of  gain. 

"Oh,  I  shall  bring  all  of  you  presents,"  replied 
Edmund. 

"Me  too?"  questioned  Little  George.  "What 
will  you  bring  me?" 

"How  would  you  like  a  gun?"  inquired  the 
clique  of  speculators  in  castles  in  Spain. 


FLORIZEL  ON  HIS  TRAVELS       133 

"0-h!"    -George  gasped  in  his  delight. 

"Bring  me  a  pony,  Stedman !  that's  a  good 
fellow,"  cried  Stevens  above  the  babel  of  com 
missions  for  guns. 

"I  think  I'd  better  make  a  note  of  it,"  com 
mented  Edmund  and,  untangling  an  inch-long 
lead  pencil  bit  from  his  pocket,  he  recorded  Ste 
vens  's  name  on  a  scrap  of  the  Aurora  that  he  had 
cut  to  serve  as  a  notebook. 

Edmund  did  truly  go  to  Hartford.  You  see, 
Deacon  Stedman  was  called  to  Hartford  on  busi 
ness  and  decided  to  take  the  boy  to  give  him  a 
change  and  holiday,  and  to  see  his  grandfather 
and  his  cousin  Griffin.  But  from  the  minute 
Edmund  climbed  into  the  stage  wagon  in  front  of 
the  old  Cross  Keys  Tavern  on  the  Green,  till  the 
minute  he  climbed  down  from  it  again,  at  his 
homecoming,  he  did  not  once  think  of  George 
Brigden  or  of  presents.  It  makes  a  difference 
whether  you  are  behind  a  horse  shed  with  your 
friends,  or  alone  in  a  strange  world  with  a  judge 
before  whom  obsequious  strangers  give  place. 
Edmund  sat  still  as  a  toad  —  all  eyes  and  ears. 
The  journey,  the  baiting,  the  arrival,  seemed  a 


i34    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

thousandfold  more  wonderful  now  that  he  was 
older  and  unwearied  than  it  had  seemed  when  he 
was  five.  The  noises  fascinated  him.  At  his 
grandfather's  house,  he  lay  awake  half  the  night, 
barkening  to  an  occasional  dray  as  it  jolted  over 
the  cobblestones.  He  could  have  stood  still 
forever,  it  seemed  to  him,  staring  down  River 
Street  at  the  ships  that  went  and  came.  The 
world  seemed  very  large  and  he  very  small,  and 
he  was  content  to  keep  his  hand  in  his  grand 
father's  hand,  and  hasten  along,  with  short, 
vehemently  quick  steps  keeping  abreast  of  the 
old  gentleman's  strides.  Diagonally  across  the 
street  from  his  grandfather's  house  was  the  house 
in  which  he  had  been  born,  and  in  which  his  cousin 
Griffin  lived. 

"Look  into  Edmund's  eyes,  Grif,"  said  the 
old  gentleman  to  the  lad.  "Edmund  is  like  his 
father,  your  uncle,  the  same  guileless,  steadfast 
front." 

Griffin  looked  into  his  little  kinsman's  eyes  and 
met  his  own  eyes  mirrored  in  their  blue ;  and 
he  laughed  and  took  Edmund's  hand  in  timid 
young  cousinliness.  But  Edmund  was  more  of 


FLORIZEL   ON  HIS   TRAVELS       135 

a   talker.     "Do  you  love  it   out-of-doors?"   he 
asked.     "And  do  you  like  the  White   Cat?     I 
do.     When  I  grow  up,  I  am  going   to  write  - 
just  like  my  mother.     And  I  am  going  to  be  a 
gentleman.     What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Griffin  shook  his  head ;  he  could  not  tell.  His 
eyes  were  not  shadowed  with  the  haze  of  an  un 
toward  destiny!  —  yet  down  the  hillside  of  years 
not  greatly  distant,  when  the  gardens  of  New 
England  should  give  their  loveliest  garlands  to 
the  red  scythe  of  war,  a  sky  as  blue  and  brave  as 
his  blue  eyes  is  bending  down  in  pity  of  one  daunt 
less  flower  that  will  never  lift  itself  again. 

My  own  father  was  at  headquarters  when  the 
rumor  overtook  him  that  his  colonel,  Griffin 
Stedman,  was  shot  to  the  heart.  He  sprang  to 
his  horse  and  spurred  to  the  rear,  with  the  sharp 
shooter's  bullets  whistling  across  his  gauntleted 
wrists.  Stretched  out  on  a  couch  in  his  tent  he 
found  his  friend,  twisting  his  fierce  yellow  mus 
taches  and  pulling  them  straight.  His  brows 
were  drawn  in  mortal  anguish.  He  did  not 
moan  or  toss.  My  father  sat  by  his  pillow  and 
watched.  It  was  the  Sunday  before  Petersburg. 


i36    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

The  tidings  had  been  telegraphed  to  Washington 
and  an  order  making  the  colonel  a  general  was 
speeding  back  over  the  wires.  But  another 
messenger  came  apace,  bearing  to  the  brave,  the 
accomplished  Griffin  Stedman  a  furlough  without 
limit. 

No  :  Edmund  did  not  once  think  of  Norwich,  or 
of  his  impressive  promises ;  not  until  he  came 
into  sight  of  the  Green  and  descried  all  the  boys 
in  the  town  forgathered  there  in  expectation  of 
him  and  his  presents  did  he  recall  his  notebook. 
Parched  with  shame,  loose-jointed  with  mortifi 
cation,  downcast,  dispirited,  loath,  footing  his 
way  as  slowly  as  a  nonagenarian,  the  returning 
traveler  crawled  from  the  stage  to  the  ground. 

"  Where's  my  gun?  "  cried  the  crowd.  "  Where's 
my  pony?  " 

Edmund  shook  his  head.  He  felt  that  he  was 
less  than  the  littlest  frog  in  the  pool. 

But  his  shame  burned  its  lesson  into  his  soul. 
Never  again  did  he  make  a  promise  that  he  did 
not  keep.  As  a  man,  men  knew  that  his  word  was 
his  life ;  they  could  depend  upon  whatever  went 
out  of  his  mouth ;  they  could  count  on  him. 


XI 

AH,  THE  IMMORTAL  PASSADO! 

ALL  the  boys  at  Deacon  Stedman's  looked 
forward  to  the  midsummer  holidays.  It  was  their 
chief  topic  of  talk. 

Mr.  Robert  Aikman  came  to  live  in  the  house 
hold  at  the  closing  of  the  school  year.  When 
the  reason  for  his  coming  was  made  known,  the 
boys  wilted.  He  was  to  open  a  summer  school  in 
the  brick  schoolhouse  just  north  of  Sentry  Hill, 
and  so  soon  as  the  boys  finished  the  regular  school 
year  on  the  Green,  the  deacon  was  planning  to 
hand  them  over  for  the  summer  to  Mr.  Aikman. 

Oh,   brazen  sky !    Oh,   heaven  without  ears ! 

"The  children  seem  to  have  the  spring  fever 
early  this  season,'*  remarked  Aunt  Abby  and 
fetched  from  the  closet  the  jug  of  brimstone 
and  treacle.  That  brimstone-laden  treacle  !  The 


138    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

boys  usually  pranced  after  taking  it  —  to  prove 
that  their  health  was  reestablished  and  that 
a  second  dose  was  superfluous !  They  walked 
past  Aunt  Abby  with  a  sprightliness  that  made 
the  cure-all  famed.  Their  gait  was  elasticity 
itself;  they  bolted  whatever  food  was  set  before 
them.  They  bowsed  into  the  corn-meal  mush 
audibly. 

But  for  once  the  treacle  seemed  to  have  lost 
its  savor.  Just  as  poor  Smike  and  the  urchins 
of  Dotheboys  Hall  lined  up  each  morning  and  met 
the  spoon,  so  Edmund  and  little  Charlie,  Hunt 
and  Turville  Adams,  and  the  Lasaga  brothers 
lined  up  for  double  doses.  Yet  not  even  double 
doses  of  the  brimstone  appeared  to  strike  in. 

Edmund  grew  peaked;  he  felt  languid  and 
peevish.  When  the  morning  came  that  he  must 
set  out  for  Sentry  Hill  schoolhouse  and  Mr. 
Aikman,  he  moved  as  if  he  had  the  rickets.  He 
stubbed  along  in  the  middle  of  the  highroad,  with 
one  foot  trailing  behind  him.  When  he  dragged 
his  foot  forward,  the  toe  scraped  a  groove  in  the 
dust.  He  gave  vent  to  a  funny  little  noise,  — 
something  between  a  snort  and  a  grunt,  —  with 


AH,  THE  IMMORTAL  PASSADO!     139 

the  regularity  of  a  hiccough.  He  was  oblivious 
of  all  passers.  He  was  dead  to  the  world  and  to 
the  future. 

When  he  entered  the  schoolhouse,  he  went 
stubbing  across  the  room  to  his  seat.  He  re 
sented  having  to  study  in  summer,  and  his  feel 
ings  infected  his  feet.  His  knees  gave  way; 
his  chest  fell  in,  and  his  shoulders  stuck  out. 
Even  his  lower  lip  hung  down  as  if  it  still  were 
confronted  with  the  treacle  spoon.  The  scholars 
were  ready  to  laugh  at  the  sight  of  him.  The 
boys  were  dead  set  against  going  to  school ;  they 
itched  to  tickle  the  nose  of  a  trout  with  a  nice 
writhing  worm;  mutiny  was  written  in  their 
books. 

"Edmund  Stedman,"  cried  Mr.  Aikman,  "can't 
you  walk  properly !" 

Edmund,  brought  to  self-consciousness  by  sud 
denly  finding  himself  an  object  of  amusement, 
came  to  a  blank  stop. 

"Lift  your  feet!"  commanded  Mr.  Aikman. 

Edmund  lifted  one  foot  with  as  much  diligence 
as  if  he  were  extricating  it  from  a  quagmire; 
he  set  it  down  with  precision  and  squareness. 


i4o    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Then  removing  his  attention  from  his  foot,  he 
glanced  up  at  Mr.  Aikman  for  approval. 

"Walk  naturally !"  cried  Mr.  Aikman  in  wrath. 

"Ain't  I  walking  naturally?"  asked  Edmund, 
in  genuine  surprise. 

The  school  burst  into  laughter. 

"Walk  across  the  room  the  way  you  always 
walk,  or  take  a  feruling,"  returned  Mr.  Aikman. 

Edmund  did  not  move. 

Mr.  Aikman  picked  up  his  ferule.  "Are  you 
going  to  start?" 

"I've  forgotten  how  I  walk,"  spoke  up  Ed 
mund,  in  sheer  perplexity. 

The  big  boys  laughed  outright. 

"I'll  give  you  something  to  help  you  remember ! " 
cried  Mr.  Aikman.  He  thrust  back  his  chair 
against  the  wood  stove,  and  hurled  his  ferule  at 
Edmund's  head. 

Everybody  knew  what  that  meant. 

"You  lick  that  boy,  and  you'll  have  me  to 
lick,"  muttered  Dave  Stevens,  a  raw-boned  un 
caring  youth. 

"What's  that,  Stevens?"  said  Mr.  Aikman 
sharply. 


AH,  THE  IMMORTAL  PASSADO!     141 

Stevens  was  silent. 

"Stevens  knows  when  to  close  his  shutters," 
whispered  Joe  Case,  a  giant  of  a  fellow. 

"I'll  give  you  ten  demerits,  Stevens,"  said  Mr. 
Aikman ;  "and  you  too,  Case." 

Stevens  held  out  his  hand.     "Thanks." 

The  girls  tittered  nervously. 

Mr.  Aikman  discreetly  overlooked  Stevens's 
offer  to  take  whatever  was  coming  his  way. 
His  face  was  swollen  with  anger.  Although  a 
good  man,  he  was  brutal.  He  was  given  to  hu 
miliating  his  pupils  and  had  a  habit  of  hurling 
his  ferule  at  an  offender,  and  expecting  the 
offender  to  fetch  the  ferule  to  him  and  take  the 
licking. 

When  Edmund  saw  the  ferule  coming,  he  took 
a  step  alert  and  natural  enough  to  satisfy  the 
most  exacting  eye.  The  ferule  struck  the  black 
board  and  fell  with  a  clatter. 

It  was  Mr.  Aikman7 s  way  of  throwing  down 
the  glove.  Edmund  accepted  the  challenge. 
Without  waiting  to  be  told,  he  picked  up  the 
ferule  and  walked  to  Mr.  Aikman.  He  was  white 
and  pulsing  with  excitement  and  tensity  of  feel- 


142    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

ing.  His  slim  little  wrists  hung  from  his  out 
grown  coat  as  blue- veined  and  delicate  as  a  girl's. 
His  hands  were  small  and  elegant,  but  one  of 
them  was  fastened  on  the  old  ferule  with  the 
grip  of  a  man.  He  extended  the  ferule  to  Mr. 
Aikman  without  quailing. 

Now  Edmund  was  a  little  lad.  He  was  slen 
der.  He  walked  among  his  mates  like  a  cock- 
robin  among  roosters.  His  slight  stature  was 
his  daily  shame,  —  a  shame  which  he  faced  in 
his  heart  and  to  which  he  bid  defiance.  More 
than  all,  he  was  helpless ;  he  had  no  father  — 
no  one  to  stand  between  him  and  the  world.  Mr. 
Aikman  was  a  grown  man.  He  was  master  of 
the  situation  by  reason  of  brute  force,  years,  and 
the  crowning  endowment  of  authority.  If  he 
had  seized  Edmund's  ready  palm  and  levied  his 
blows  upon  it,  as  he  would  have  done  in  the  case 
of  any  of  the  other  boys,  Edmund  would  have 
taken  his  punishment  without  rebelling.  But 
no,  the  schoolmaster  was  bent  on  breaking  his 
spirit,  on  humiliating  him,  on  making  him  cry 
with  mortification.  He  grasped  him  by  his 
collar  and  laid  him  across  his  knee.  And  all 


AH,  THE  IMMORTAL  PASSADO!     143 

the  girls  looking  on !  It  was  too  much  to  be 
borne. 

In  his  anger  and  haste,  the  schoolmaster  did 
not  observe  that  his  chair  did  not  stand  squarely 
on  the  platform,  that  when  he  had  shoved  it 
backwards,  one  leg  had  caught  against  the  foot 
of  the  stove.  Edmund  espied  it  and  set  the  ball 
of  his  foot  firmly  against  the  stove.  Mr.  Aikman 
raised  his  ferule  in  the  air.  Edmund  gave  a 
push  with  all  his  might  against  the  stove.  Over 
went  Mr.  Aikman's  chair;  over  went  Mr.  Aik 
man  on  the  top  of  his  chair ;  over  went  Edmund 
on  top  of  Mr.  Aikman. 

Pride  was  Mr.  Aikman's  ruling  passion  as  well 
as  Edmund's,  and  it  was  strong  in  death.  In  his 
downfall,  he  had  no  thought  of  saving  himself. 
He  held  on  to  his  head  with  both  hands.  He 
did  not  wish  to  lose  his  wig  before  the  young 
ladies !  Mirth  and  consternation  demoralized 
the  school.  Robert  Aikman  wras  only  an  instant 
in  getting  on  his  feet,  but  in  that  instant  Edmund 
sprang  through  the  doorway,  and  taking  the 
stone  steps  at  a  leap,  flew  up  the  road  for  dear 
life. 


144    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

What  should  Mr.  Aikman  do?  Run  like  a 
woman  for  Edmund,  or  look  after  his  school? 
He  wisely  decided  to  bring  back  order  into  the 
fold,  and  to  let  the  black  sheep  go  for  the  present. 
Edmund  and  he  lived  under  the  same  roof; 
he  had  him  as  surely  as  if  he  had  him  in  his  hand. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Edmund  was  prepared  for 
any  fate.  He  was  not  certain  that  his  uncle  would 
not  kill  him  when  he  learned  of  the  disturbance. 
Mr.  Aikman  was  held  in  sincere  esteem  in  the 
Stedman  household.  Every  one  thought  well  of 
him  and  spoke  well  of  him,  excepting  Jerusha 
who  did  not  appear  to  think  of  anybody,  and 
seldom  addressed  the  school-teacher.  So  Edmund 
went  to  Jerusha's  room  with  the  unstudied  inten 
tion  of  making  his  case  strong  with  her,  but  when 
he  looked  into  the  understanding  serenity  of  her 
gaze,  he  said  bluntly,  "Cousin  Jerusha,  I'm  the 
dickens."  He  hung  around  a  minute  and  finally 
confessed,  "Jerusha,  you  know  that  fellow  Aik 
man  ;  well,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  took  a 
scunner  at  me,  some  time.'' 

But  that  fellow  Aikman  said  nothing  when  he 
returned  to  dinner.  Manifestly,  he  had  sched- 


AH,  THE  IMMORTAL  PASSADO!     145 

uled  the  storm  for  the  next  evening,  when  there 
would  be  time  for  the  accessories.  Meanwhile 
Edmund  made  up  his  mind  to  go  back  to  school 
and  brave  the  lion  in  the  den.  He  could  not 
stay  home,  and  he  was  too  conscience-oppressed 
to  play  truant. 


XII 

OUT  OF  THE  FRYING  PAN 

BUT  the  school  affair  was  not  ended.  Accord 
ing  to  the  rumor  that  came  from  Fuller's  store, 
it  had  only  just  begun. 

It  transpired  that  after  Edmund  fled  from 
school,  Mr.  Aikman  returned  to  the  classroom 
and  dismissed  Joe  Case  and  David  Stevens  for 
the  remainder  of  the  day.  But  at  the  close  of  the 
afternoon,  he  announced  to  the  scholars  that  he 
would  give  Joe  and  Dave  a  feruling  at  the  outset 
of  the  next  morning's  session.  This  announce 
ment  was  reported  in  Fuller's  store  in  the  presence 
of  Joe  Case,  whereupon  Case  declared  that  he 
Tvould  pull  off  Mr.  Aikman's  wig.  Joe  Case  was 
more  than  Mr.  Aikman's  match  in  brawn  and 
height,  but  Mr.  Aikman  was  as  active  as  a  hornet. 
Mild-eyed  Mr.  Fuller  said,  "No,  no,  Joe,  better 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING  PAN        147 

be  a  good  lad,"  but  the  Indian  hunter  who  some 
times  brought  flowers  and  herbs  to  Jerusha 
pricked  Joe  on,  not  only  to  pull  off  the  wig  but 
to  keep  it  as  a  memento.  Levi  Wattles  wagered 
ten  to  one  on  Joe  Case,  and  Particular  Perkins 
wagered  ten  to  one  on  Mr.  Aikman ;  but  when  the 
sexton  offered  to  hold  the  stakes,  both  bettors 
waxed  cautious,  and  bet  over  again  without 
stipulating  any  amount. 

The  younger  set  heard  the  talk  in  the  store,  and 
forthwith  ran  to  the  Stedman  Manor  to  forewarn 
Mr.  Aikman.  Because  Edmund  was  the  primal 
cause  of  the  trouble,  no  one  dared  to  tell  the 
deacon,  or  Aunt  Abby,  or  Aunt  Eunice;  Annie 
confided  in  Miss  Moffit,  the  mantua-maker,  and 
at  dinner  Miss  Moffit  took  her  place  beside  the 
schoolmaster  as  if  she  were  attending  his  obse 
quies.  But  Miss  Moffit's  supreme  betrayal  of 
apprehension  was  when  passing  him  the  butter, 
—  she  shook  with  fear,  her  face  turned  white, 
• —  she  passed  the  dish  with  the  air  of  one  who  is 
handing  her  best  friend  a  sod  to  cover  his  coffin. 
The  little  girls  were  stark  with  terror.  They  fol 
lowed  Mr.  Aikman  with  looks  that  implored 


148    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

him  to  stay  away  from  school.  Every  hour  he 
appeared  more  diminutive  in  their  eyes,  and  as 
he  lost  in  size,  he  gained  in  support. 

But  Mr.  Aikman,  undaunted,  held  to  his  pur 
pose.  Armed  with  a  rawhide,  he  strode  to  school 
at  the  usual  hour.  The  scholars  had  already 
gathered. 

Mr.  Aikman  took  his  stand  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  He  called  first  for  Dave  Stevens.  Dave, 
affecting  the  booby,  crawled  forward,  and  for  the 
amusement  of  the  school,  burst  forth  into  such 
blubberings  when  the  ferule  stung  his  palm  that 
the  scholars  laughed  aloud.  The  laugh  was  on 
Mr.  Aikman. 

After  Dave,  wiping  his  nose  with  his  sleeve,  and 
digging  his  fists  into  his  eyes,  had  taken  his  seat, 
Mr.  Aikman  called  for  Joe  Case,  and  Case,  com 
ing  forward,  made  a  snatch  at  the  schoolmaster's 
wig.  But  Mr.  Aikman  was  too  quick  for  him; 
springing  to  the  top  of  his  desk,  he  brought  the 
rawhide  around  Joe's  neck  and  shoulders.  So 
began  one  of  the  biggest  fights  ever  known  in 
Norwich  Town. 

"Get  him  by  the  leg!"  cried  little  Stedman, 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING  PAN        149 

in  a  ferment  of  excitement  to  have  the  under-dog 
seize  his  one  chance. 

Joe  grabbed  the  teacher  by  the  leg;  he  tried 
to  wrench  him  off  his  feet.  Again  and  again, 
with  his  head  laid  against  Mr.  Aikman's  knee  for 
protection,  he  sprang  at  the  rawhide,  but  Mr. 
Aikman  was  too  spry.  At  last  Case  snatched 
up  the  poker  and  tried  to  fell  his  opponent  with 
it,  the  rawhide  curling  around  him  at  every  turn. 

Either  man  might  have  taken  the  other's  life 
in  that  moment;  Case  was  blindly  desperate; 
Mr.  Aikman  was  infuriated,  but  cool. 

The  girls  ran  down  the  stone  stairway  for  help, 
and  having  reached  the  street,  flew  back  again 
to  see  if  the  fighters  were  still  living.  They 
fluttered  up  and  down  like  frightened  doves.  The 
flock  of  them  laid  hold  of  George  Brigdon  who 
was  passing  on  the  Out-Along-Road,  but  George 
feared  to  enter  the  school  and  stood  at  the  door, 
ready  to  run  if  the  field  of  battle  shifted  towards 
him. 

Mr.  Aikman  subdued  Joe  at  last.  Joe,  with 
his  face  and  neck  looking  like  a  piece  of  red- 
barred  calico,  admitted  that  he  was  beaten; 


1 50    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

and  Mr.  Aikman  expelled  him  at  once  and  for 
ever  from  the  school.  He  expelled  Dave  Stevens, 
also. 

Would  you  like  to  hear  what  became  of  Dave 
Stevens?  He  could  have  killed  Mr.  Aikman 
that  day  of  the  fight,  if  he  had  chosen.  He  was 
a  human  bulldog,  —  he  never  let  go,  when  he 
once  laid  hold.  He  was  a  brave  fellow  —  nothing 
could  make  him  cower.  He  was  not  of  a  spirit 
that  can  set  itself  to  petty  tasks.  Not  long  after 
his  trouble  with  Mr.  Aikman,  he  hired  himself 
out  to  Mr.  Wilcox  in  the  Scotland  Road,  and 
was  told  to  clear  a  field  of  stone.  He  cleared  the 
space  by  flinging  the  stones  into  the  adjoining 
lot;  then  off  he  went,  and  did  not  return.  He 
disappeared  from  Norwich,  and  was  not  heard  of 
till  the  John  Brown  Raid  at  Harper's  Ferry. 
If  you  wish  to  read  about  Dave  himself,  read 
the  ballad  How  Old  Brown  Took  Harper's  Ferry, 
written  by  Edmund  nearly  a  score  of  years 
later,  when  he  was  no  less  stirred  by  the  fight 
forerunning  the  Civil  War  than  he  was  stirred 
that  summer  morning  at  the  outposts  of  his 
youth. 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING  PAN        151 

"  'Twas  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on  the  evening  of 
a  Sunday ; 

'This  good  work',  declared  the  Captain,  ' shall  be  on 
a  holy  night ! ' 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  before  the  noon  of 
Monday, 

With   two   sons  and   Captain   Stevens,   fifteen  pri 
vates  —  black  and  white, 
Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac,  and  knocked 
the  sentry  down." 

But  the  authorities  soon  had  the  Martinsburg 
Sharpshooters,  the  Charlestown  Volunteers,  the 
Shepherdstown  and  Winchester  Militia,  and  the 
Government  Marines  marching  upon  Stevens 
and  his  captain,  while  the  Virginia  gentry  gath 
ered  to  the  baying.  They  stabbed  old  Brown 
three  times  to  make  sure,  they  were  so  in  fear 
that  he  might  trick  them.  Dave  was  literally 
shot  to  pieces  —  yet  he  breathed.  It  seemed  as 
if  it  was  not  in  him  to  die.  The  authorities 
nursed  his  brave,  shot-riddled  carcass  back  to  life 
—  in  order  that  he  might  be  hanged  and  know  it. 
And  they  hanged  him  on  a  tree  like  men  of 


152    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Golgotha.  After  the  hanging,  the  parson  went 
with  Dave's  father  to  Washington. 

The  parson  was  a  person  of  authority  and 
presence,  and  Dave's  father  needed  influence  to 
help  him  in  his  pleading  with  the  law  for  the 
body  which  he  wished  to  bring  back  to  the  old 
burying  ground.  So  Dave's  father  came  home 
with  his  little  son ;  for  now  that  Dave's  hard  life 
was  over,  Dave  was  again  a  little  lad  to  the  fond, 
overtried,  broken-hearted  father,  —  he  was  his 
helpless  son,  his  dearly-born,  his  onetime  hope, 
who  must  be  swathed  and  carried,  and  who 
would  sleep  once  more  as  in  a  cradle  and  never 
cause  him  grief. 

But  all  this  history  may  seem  gloomy;  you 
may  be  wondering  what  punishment  was  at 
hand  for  little  Edmund  when  his  guardian  learned 
of  the  commotion  that  he  had  aroused. 

Not  a  word  was  said  to  Edmund  until  the  sun 
down  after  the  fight,  when  Deacon  Stedman  sent 
for  him  to  come  to  his  study.  Shrewd,  bluff 
Doctor  Butler,  the  family  physician  whom  Ed 
mund  had  passed  when  he  went  stubbing  to  school, 
was  just  stepping  into  his  chaise  as  Edmund 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING  PAN        153 

crossed  the  hallway.  Edmund  could  see  that 
Doctor  Butler  had  been  talking  about  him. 

"Edmund/'  said  the  deacon,  "I  have  been 
advised  —  and  now  that  my  attention  is  called 
to  the  matter,  my  judgment  commends  the  sug 
gestion —  that  you  let  your  lessons  go  until 
autumn,  and  take  the  run  of  the  fields."  He 
patted  Edmund's  head. 

Edmund  braced  himself.  The  supper  bell  was 
ringing.  He  heard  Mr.  Aikman's  step.  In  an 
other  moment  all  would  be  over.  The  storm 
would  break. 

Edmund  and  the  schoolmaster  sat  opposite 
each  other  at  table.  When  they  took  their  places, 
Mr.  Aikman  eyed  Edmund.  Edmund  eyed  him 
back  intrepidly.  Mr.  Aikman  raised  his  teacup ; 
Edmund,  gulping,  raised  his  mug.  A  suspicion 
of  a  smile  unsteadied  Mr.  Aikman's  lip;  he 
accorded  Edmund  a  silent,  but  not  unfriendly  nod. 

Edmund's  spirits  leapt  with  joy.  He  shot 
back  at  Mr.  Aikman  a  smile  of  illimitable  brother- 
liness.  Mr.  Aikman  had  not  taken  a  scunner 
at  him  after  all !  The  surety  of  it,  and  the  swift 
remembrance  of  the  promised  vacation  which 


154    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

until  that  instant  had  seemed  a  fortune  forerun 
ning  a  downfall,  went  to  his  head.  He  could 
not  eat  his  supper.  Not  the  self-confident  stare 
of  the  treacle  and  brimstone  jug  on  the  dresser 
could  make  him  do  it.  He  was  all  thanksgiving. 
So  soon  as  he  was  dismissed  from  table,  he  stole 
out  of  doors  into  the  still  air.  He  gazed  unbe 
lievingly  out  upon  the  night-damp  that  arched 
the  Lathrops'  lowlands  in  a  canopy  of  mist.  Then 
he  shinned  the  apple  tree  within  touch  of  the 
bedchamber  where  Charlie  and  the  Adams  boys 
would  soon  be  sleeping.  He  settled  himself. 
The  wisteria  that  lay  limp  and  light  along  the 
boughs  was  not  more  at  home  than  he.  He  was 
attempting  to  take  in  the  joys  of  this  mortal  life. 

Presently  the  inner  gate  stirred.  Jerusha  was 
going  to  Sunday-school  teachers'  meeting  with 
Mr.  Aikman.  They  were  coming  through  the 
garden.  Edmund  gazed  broodingly  down 
through  the  gloaming,  incurious  as  a  star.  Clove 
pinks  spread  under  him,  girdled  in  green.  Mar 
joram  climbed  over  into  the  path. 

In  the  grape-wreathed  eaves  a  house  dove 
murmured.  The  perfumes  from  the  flowers  as- 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING  PAN        155 

cended  as  if  the  flowers  themselves  were  lifted 
to  his  freckled  nose.  Such  a  quiet  little  lad  as  he 
was,  when  he  was  quiet.  He  sniffed  the  keen 
scent  of  the  cedar  as  the  new  gate  swung  for  the 
first  time  on  the  night  air.  Dreamily  following 
Mr.  Aikman  and  Jerusha  with  eyes  as  deep  as  a 
sloe's,  he  thought  of  a  host  of  things  between 
whiles,  —  of  the  trough  that  he  was  planning 
to  make  into  an  aquarium  —  of  the  toad  that  he 
was  taming  in  the  hope  of  presenting  it  as  a  gift 
to  his  aunt.  Jerusha  had  not  appeared  to  favor 
Mr.  Aikman;  when  she  was  not  haughty  with 
him,  she  mocked  him  to  his  face  by  her  indif 
ference.  Now  they  walked  decorously,  Jerusha 
and  her  teacher,  he  in  Sunday  black,  she  in  a 
green  silk  that  fell  leaflike  from  her  full-blown 
shoulders.  The  marjoram  held  its  breath,  fear 
ful  of  the  schoolmaster's  boot;  and  when  only 
Jerusha' s  shawl  brushed  its  leaves,  it  filled  the 
dusk  with  the  spicy  fragrance  of  its  relief.  Mr. 
Aikman  had  come  within  the  shadow  of  the 
apple  boughs  and  had  halted.  It  was  Edmund 
now  that  held  his  breath.  Mr.  Aikman  and 
Jerusha  stood,  circled  around  with  roses,  — 


156    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Jerusha  the  fairest  and  the  palest.  And  Mr. 
Aikman  gathered  her  like  any  rose,  and,  lifting 
her  face  in  his  hands,  gazed  deep  into  it,  himself 
bending  until  his  lips  met  hers. 

The  utter  sweetness  of  the  silence,  the  unfathom 
able  tenderness  of  Mr.  Aikman's  look,  flooded 
Edmund's  soul.  Little  gentleman  in  heart,  he 
closed  his  eyes.  He  was  choked  with  desire  and 
blinded  by  an  ethereal  sadness,  a  sense  of  the 
unguessed  bliss  that  waited  in  the  world.  He, 
too,  could  love ;  he  knew  that  he  could  —  if 
only  Jerusha  would  let  him  love  her  the  way  that 
Mr.  Aikman  loved  her.  If  only  he  had  some  one 
of  his  own  to  guard  and  cherish  —  some  one  - 
or  a  little  bird !  He  would  love  to  have  a  little 
bird. 

After  a  long  time,  he  opened  his  eyes.  Jerusha 
and  the  schoolmaster  were  gone.  Gone,  too, 
was  the  new  moon,  fallen  like  a  petal  from  the 
sky !  And  at  his  feet,  as  he  slipped  to  the  path, 
lay  a  ring  of  petals  that  had  fallen  from  a  willess 
rose. 


XIII 

THE  WANDER  SUMMER 

EDMUND  was  out  of  doors  before  dawn  in  his 
zeal  to  begin  his  vacation.  He  had  not  realized 
how  greatly  he  was  counting  upon  it  until  Mr. 
Aikman's  arrival  almost  crossed  it  from  the  calen 
dar  and  he  had  been  left  with  innumerable  enter 
prises  unfulfilled  at  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

He  ran  up  and  around  the  Green,  —  he  had  so 
much  to  do,  —  and  then  he  walked ;  and  last  of  all 
he  lay  down  on  The  Doorstep  wall  in  the  broad 
sun  —  as  lazy  as  a  lizard.  He  escorted  his  mates  to 
the  schoolhouse  door,  and  at  the  close  of  school 
was  waiting  to  receive  them  into  freedom.  To 
crown  the  hour,  he  was  given  a  knife.  He  carried 
it  open  and  to  the  fore,  ready  for  every  purpose. 
He  cut  Miss  Moffit's  baste  with  it;  broke  the 
seals  on  available  letters;  picked  his  small  white 
teeth.  He  picked  them  like  a  pirate.  He  bade 


158    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

the  boys  sit  down  and  look  at  him  play  Mumble- 
the-peg.  Hunt  Adams,  with  brown  bare  arms 
clasped  around  brown  bare  knees,  watched  the 
knife  with  covetous  eyes.  Edmund  cast  it  twice 
-  three  times.  It  struck  Hunt's  knee.  Horrors  ! 
It  slid  into  the  flesh,  amid  the  joint,  as  easily  as 
into  mire.  Edmund  laid  hold  of  it  mightily; 
the  blade  snapped  short. 

"Now  see  what  youVe  done,  Hunt!"  cried 
the  boys,  when  they  found  their  tongues,  "stick 
ing  your  knee  into  everything !  YouVe  broken 
Ned's  new  knife!" 

Doctor  Butler  dragged  the  blade  out  with 
tweezers,  but  Edmund  had  the  sympathy  of  them 
all.  He  was  the  hero.  His  knife  had  done  it. 
Besides,  he  was  full  of  business.  He  was  on  the 
road  before  the  sun  and  was  going  all  day  long, 
yet  his  plans  still  kept  ahead  of  him.  Again  he 
had  only  a  bladeless  knife,  but  his  interests  grew 
with  the  days. 

Standing  tiptoe  at  the  window  of  Lathrop's 
tavern,  he  peered  in  at  the  partners  "making 
graces."  His  fingers  tapped  on  the  sill  in  rhythm 
with  the  girls'  feet ;  his  breath  halted  for  Tom  the 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  159 

Fiddler  each  time  that  that  pathetic  comedian 
paused  with  bow  uplifted.  A  dancing  party  on 
a  midsummer  night  was  a  fine  thing.  But  in 
winter,  —  ah,  winter  after  all  was  the  season  for 
dancing !  Once  in  the  winter  he  had  stolen  out 
of  bed  and  scurried  to  the  tavern  to  see  the  fun, 
and  none  of  the  Stedman  household  was  the  wiser. 
His  Captain  Marryat  adventure  had  taught  him 
how  easy  a  thing  it  is  to  run  away  —  provided 
you  have  a  place  to  run  to.  He  did  not  dream 
any  more  of  running  away  to  his  mother.  Rumors 
that  she  was  journeying  hither  and  yon,  and  that 
she  was  so  successful,  so  admired,  made  him  falter 
and  seem  strange.  No,  he  did  not  cheat  himself 
with  dreams  of  her.  His  mother  was  for  older 
playmates ;  he  understood  the  household's  whis 
pers.  But  whenever  he  was  taken  by  an  inclina 
tion  to  cool  his  bare  toes  in  the  starry  dew,  or 
spy  for  moths  among  the  moon-white  flowers,  he 
waited  till  his  bedfellows  were  sleeping,  and  then 
let  himself  down  from  the  window.  And  when 
ever  he  felt  as  if  he  would  like  a  little  frolic,  out 
he  stepped  as  airily  as  Peter  Pan !  The  girls 
petted  Edmund,  and  none  of  the  big  boys  told  on 


160    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

him  when  his  luminous  soft  eyes  shone  through 
the  gloom  at  them,  hours  after  curfew's  calling, 
or  his  joyous  hand  sprang  to  curb  a  restive  horse. 
He  was  the  village  sprite.  When  Edmund  went 
to  bed  after  eating  in  silence  his  bowl  of  mush  and 
apple  sauce,  no  one  tucked  the  coverlet  safe  around 
him;  no  one  kissed  him  good  night  and  chided 
fondly,  "Now  not  another  word,  my  Dearheart; 
shut  your  eyes  fast  and  go  to  sleep  !"  Little  boys 
who  have  no  mother  must  be  excused  for  tripping 
abroad  with  the  fairies. 

But  that  night  of  the  dancing  party  in  winter  was 
the  best  fun.  Sleighs  in  a  covey  flew  over  the 
Yantic.  They  took  the  bridge  with  a  whir;  ha, 
ha,  the  tollman  was  too  slow !  Old  Faithful  did 
not  get  a  ninepence  from  a  single  couple  of  them ! 
On  a  peal  of  bells  and  a  roundelay  of  song,  the 
couples  dashed  into  the  tavern  yard,  and  chat 
tering  and  chaffing,  fluttered  down  into  the  snow. 
And  out  from  the  tavern  stepped  Goodman  Lath- 
rop,  ruddy  as  a  Baldwin  apple !  The  old  hearth 
blazed  as  if  gone  mad;  the  kettles  steamed  as  if 
to  burst  themselves  —  and  with  the  cream  and 
clabber  freezing  in  the  dairy  at  the  Stedmans. 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  161 

Tom  the  Fiddler  played  Money  Musk  to  close; 
then  in  to  supper,  two  by  two,  the  young  folk 
marched,  with  mine  host  Lathrop  leading.  The 
joy  of  youth  was  in  them;  they  leaned  against 
the  walls  with  laughter.  Edmund,  standing  in 
the  dark  and  dearth,  clapped  his  hands  and  cried 
"Bravo  !  Bravo  !"  when  Jim  kissed  Susan.  But 
when  the  supper  was  done  and  the  sleighs  started 
forth,  it  would  have  been  inexplicable  to  any  old 
Dryasdust  why  the  couples  dropped  so  far  aloof. 
But  Edmund  was  no  dullard.  Each  couple  was 
in  love,  of  course  —  just  as  Jerusha  and  Mr. 
Aikman  were  in  love,  and  just  as  brawny  Tom 
loved  Mary. 

And  no  sooner  were  the  buffalo  robes  tucked  in 
than  he  was  beamingly  solicitous  to  have  the 
young  folk  well  away  on  the  turnpike  and  happy. 

Listening  to  the  melodies  in  the  tavern,  he 
learned  them  by  ear,  and  soon  could  play  them 
on  Tom  Harland's  jew's-harp.  With  Tom  and 
Ed  Harland  and  Harry  Bond,  he  sat  on  the  ledge 
under  the  full  moon  and  the  Harland  elm,  and 
played  Money  Musk  as  merrily  as  the  fiddler. 
He  could  play  any  one  of  the  tavern  tunes,  if 


162    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

you  gave  him  time  to  feel  around  for  it  a  little. 
In  the  sunlight,  too,  the  quartet  sat  there  and 
learned  delicacy  of  touch  and  patience  of  en 
deavor,  making  miniature  bladders  out  of  the 
leaves  of  a  starveling  wan  plant  that  by  crouch 
ing  close  to  the  earth  held  its  own  on  the  windy 
brow  of  Sentry  Hill.  To-day  that  same  timid 
leek  —  the  selfsame  root  —  grows  on  the  Har- 
land  rocks.  It  lives  generation  in  and  generation 
out,  while  men  blow  by  like  leaves. 

In  a  pother  of  patriotism,  Edmund  embraced 
the  example  set  by  the  older  boys,  and  marching 
belligerently  upon  Harriet  and  Lizzie  Arnold's 
door,  flung  clods,  mud,  stones,  at  it.  Harriet 
and  Lizzie  Arnold  were  the  helpless,  undefended 
cousins  of  Benedict  Arnold,  and  they  lived  out 
their  days  in  a  sorry  cottage  (our  country  con 
fiscated  the  Arnold  property  because  Benedict 
Arnold  betrayed  us  to  the  king)  at  the  bend  in 
the  Hartford  turnpike,  north  from  Dodo  Perkins's 
shop,  where  to-day  the  good  priest  Father  Mc- 
Cann  lives  and,  tending  his  parish  as  if  it  were  a 
garden,  makes  a  flower  plot  of  Edmund's  base 
of  supplies,  —  the  gravel  bank.  The  Arnold 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  163 

sisters  did  not  marry  —  none  would  marry  the 
gentle  creatures ;  and  when  they  died,  the  fathers 
of  the  boys  who  persecuted  them  buried  them  in 
nameless  graves  in  the  old  burying-ground.  And 
there  they  lie,  —  somewhere,  —  innocent,  ostra 
cized  Gentility  condemned  to  death  while  still 
alive,  because  of  their  kinsman's  treachery. 
Whether  Benedict  Arnold  knew  or  not  that  his 
far  relations  suffered  for  his  shame,  he  sent  them 
from  England  a  monthly  stipend  so  long  as  they 
lived. 

Edmund,  with  his  mates,  meandered  among 
the  pumpkins  in  a  certain  cornfield  on  hills  to  the 
southward  of  Stedman  Manor,  culling  here  an 
ear  and  there  an  ear.  Afterwards,  he  and  they 
built  a  fire  behind  his  uncle's  orchard  wall  and 
gnawed  their  spoils.  They  called  themselves 
buccaneers  and,  by  their  own  stories  of  the  havoc 
they  wrought,  the  town  had  cause  to  blench  with 
fear.  They  knew  well  enough  that  they  were 
thieves,  and  they  ran  as  if  the  whole  police  force, 
or  at  least  the  parson,  were  after  them  when  they 
mistook  the  rustling  of  a  field  mouse  for  the  foot 
fall  of  the  Owner. 


164    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

The  boys  were  chagrined  indeed  when  they 
learned  by  chance  that  the  vague  Owner  against 
whom  they  pretended  that  they  were  armed  to 
the  teeth  was  Dan  Oilman's  Aunt  Lathrop,  a 
kindly  soul,  who  would  have  cooked  them  her  full 
field  if  she  had  guessed  their  emptiness.  They 
never  prigged  the  Lathrop  corn  again;  they 
prigged  the  deacon's. 

But  the  hours  between  meals  were  a  Sabbath 
long,  and  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  even  the 
disciples  gathered  maize  on  the  Sabbath  when 
they  were  ahungered.  Edmund  was  ahungered 
all  that  summer.  But  at  the  home  table,  when 
ever  he  cleared  his  plate  and  looked  at  his  uncle 
in  a  way  that  invited  a  second  helping,  one  of  his 
aunts  was  bound  to  exclaim,  "I  declare,  James, 
Edmund  must  have  something  the  matter  with 
him ;  his  appetite  is  abnormal !" 

Edmund  caught  six  darling  trout  in  Bobbin 
Mill  Brook,  which  he  christened  My  Brook  be 
cause  he  loved  it,  —  trout  large  enough  to  fry ! 
Oh,  the  glory  of  it  —  to  see  them  sizzling  each 
moment  crisper  and  more  brown  in  a  tin  cover  over 
the  live  coals  of  his  orchard  fire !  He  treated  like 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  165 

a  lord  and  dished  up  his  petty  fingerlings  with  as 
much  circumstance  as  if  they  were  whales.  He 
crowded  an  entire  fish  on  each  of  his  six  mates, 
and  in  his  pride  swallowed  such  gulps  of  air  that 
wind-filled  and  ecstatic,  he  watched  them  eat, 
and  himself  felt  no  lack. 

The  year  before,  in  the  brook  that  runs  to  the 
river,  —  the  brook  that  is  the  Bury  ing-ground 
Brook  and  the  Bobbin  Mill  Brook  joining  hands, 
—  he  had  come  upon  a  tremendous  fish,  fat, 
still,  and  sleepy.  With  one  snatch  he  clutched 
it,  and  over  the  meadows  was  flying  with  it,  done 
up  in  his  pinafore  as  a  present  to  his  aunts.  He 
was  always  taking  presents  to  somebody.  He 
was  in  raptures.  Only  to  think  of  catching  so 
huge  a  fish  with  his  hands !  But  his  aunts,  the 
worldly-wise  ones,  turned  away.  "A  sucker!" 
was  all  they  said.  Edmund,  who  had  entered 
the  kitchen  winged,  slunk  off  to  bury  out  of 
sight  the  trophy  that  disgraced  him.  He  did 
not  know  what  a  sucker  was;  he  did  not  guess 
till  then  that  there  were  suckers  in  the  world. 
He  had  never  been  young  before,  and  until  one 
has  learned  either  by  experience  or  hearsay,  no 


i66    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

one  knows  everything  —  especially  in  regard  to 
suckers. 

Nature  herself  became  Edmund's  school-teacher 
that  summer.  He  wore  smooth  the  short  cut 
to  the  swimming  hole  in  the  river  Yantic,  —  a 
lovely  spot  which  any  city  older  than  Norwich 
would  cherish,  —  and  in  the  delight  of  swimming 
forgot  for  the  time  the  pains  and  shames  of 
encounters  with  suckers.  The  big  boys  shoved 
him  headlong  and  ducked  him  under,  and  soon 
he  was  diving  among  lily  pads  and  under  them 
as  reliant  as  a  loon.  He  made  a  raft  and  poled 
it  —  Bobbin  Mill  Brook  was  an  uncaring,  whirl 
ing  current  six  feet  across  when  a  rainfall  freshened 
it.  He  beguiled  fisherman  Goss  to  let  him  hold 
the  helm  of  the  catboat  Osprey,  and  his  buoyant 
heart  rose  at  the  lift  of  the  surge.  He  rode  the 
three-year-old  colt  bareback.  With  his  arms 
strained  from  their  sockets,  he  sat  beside  Mr. 
Bela  Peck  and  drove  his  span  at  a  spanking 
pace. 

Mr.  Peck's  haw-haw !  awoke  the  hills.  He 
was  a  gentleman,  large,  powerful,  tenacious,  who 
never  felt  the  bit  of  ill-health.  He  drove  his 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  167 

own  horses  until  he  was  past  ninety  and  died  at 
ninety-six,  untamed  to  the  last  by  wasting  sick 
ness.  The  beautiful  Peck  library  —  a  library  for 
students  —  was  bequeathed  to  his  town  by  his 
daughter;  and  it  is  housed  to-day  in  an  aerie 
as  secluded  as  a  cloister. 

Like  the  rest  of  the  boys  too,  now  that  Ed 
mund  was  of  an  age  to  sit  on  the  singers'  bench 
in  the  organ  gallery  and  be  classed  as  one  of  "  thim 
young  treble/'  he  carried  to  church  as  his  contri 
bution  to  the  exercises  a  hollyhock  bell  in  which 
he  had  caught  a  bumblebee  napping,  and  in  the 
middle  of  the  long  prayer  he  and  his  mates  let 
go  the  silken  edges  of  the  flowers,  and  out  flew 
the  captives.  Buzz,  buzz,  buzz !  How  the 
burly,  bustling  gold-knees  stormed  up  and  down, 
now  over  the  deacons'  bald  pates  and  now  under 
the  parson's  nose !  Edmund  was  so  taken  up 
watching  the  congregation  that  he  forgot  him 
self  and  his  part  in  the  affray,  and  when  one  of 
the  buzzing  oafs  hied  past  his  ear,  he  jumped  so 
suddenly  to  his  feet  that  the  other  end  of  the 
bench,  already  overweighted,  since  half  the  chor 
isters  were  on  their  feet  to  see  the  fun,  went  down, 


i68    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

precipitating  the  fat,  fair  Miss  Forty  flat  against 
the  shanks  of  the  first  tenor  who  was  a  bachelor  — 
and  he  never  thinking  to  assist  her,  but  heaving 
his  arms  aloft  in  his  fear  of  having  a  lady  on  his 
hands. 

Edmund  went  to  the  Bean  Hill  Methodist 
Meetinghouse  to  attend  the  mid-week  conference 
meeting  whenever  he  could  manage  it.  Bean 
Hill  held  the  captain's  share  of  the  beauties  of  the 
county.  It  was  a  great  lark  to  watch  Harry 
Bond  now  get  the  mitten  and  now  the  girl.  He 
himself  asked  Cynthia  if  he  might  "squire"  her 
home,  and  when  he  asked,  she  tucked  him  under 
her  arm  and  said  to  Tom  Harland,  his  rival, 
"You  don't  mind  having  Edmund  along,  do  you, 
Tom?  He's  such  a  pretty  dear!"  The  girls 
simply  laughed  at  Edmund,  he  was  so  young  and 
sprightly.  He  would  have  enlarged  the  borders  of 
Cynthia's  roguish  black  eye  if  only  she  had  not 
been  a  lady.  He  had  a  great  respect  for  the  Sex. 

The  boys  who  were  intending  to  beau  girls 
home  sat  on  the  last  bench  in  the  vestry.  During 
prayer,  they  bowed  their  heads  and,  having  sur 
veyed  the  field,  engaged  in  a  hushed  dispute  over 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  169 

the  merits  of  their  respective  fair  ones.  Now 
on  a  night  when  the  verbal  strife  hung  fire,  owing 
to  the  absence  of  the  Sherman  girls,  Ed  Harland 
passed  along  the  line  for  inspection  an  old  pistol 
that  he  had  found  in  the  loft  of  Dodo  Perkins's 
shop.  Edmund  was  metal  hot  on  the  anvil  at 
the  sight  of  a  pistol.  In  his  zeal  to  examine  the 
weapon,  he  let  it  slip,  and  crash,  bang !  It  struck 
the  floor  —  it  discharged.  Ladies  screamed  and 
fainted.  They  believed  themselves  shot.  Even 
when  the  bullet  was  found  embedded  in  the 
wall,  Elder  B.  still  fingered  his  waistcoat,  he  was 
so  sure  that  he  was  peppered. 

The  shooting-up,  as  the  report  of  it  reached 
Deacon  Stedman,  was  a  ruffianly  attack  made 
upon  a  God-fearing  and  peaceable  public.  Ed 
mund  was  kept  on  bread  and  water  for  a  week 
and  under  lock  and  bolt.  But  time  in  his  garden- 
kirtled  bed-chamber  did  not  hang  too  heavily 
on  his  hands. 

"Harland!"  he  piped  softly  from  the  window 
of  his  prison. 

Harland  shook  his  head  and  continued  to  walk 
on  the  further  side  of  the  road. 


170    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"Harland!" 

Harland  would  neither  hear  nor  see  nor  turn,  but 
came  to  a  state  of  standstill,  like  a  pickerel  in  a 
pond. 

" Harland, "  Edmund  called,  "if  you  will  bring 
me  a  book,  I  will  let  you  take  my  knife.'7 

Harland  blinked  at  the  bait  but  did  not  bite. 
"The  one  that  Hunt  broke?"  he  asked. 

"New  one  —  brand  new  —  New  York." 

Harland  crossed  the  road  to  the  window. 
Twenty  minutes  later*  Edmund  had  his  book. 
He  used  the  book  as  a  hostage  for  two  books. 
When  toward  twilight  he  tired  from  reading,  he 
stood  with  his  nose  flattened  against  the  pane. 
He  watched  his  toad  in  the  garden-walk  wait 
sagely  for  its  supper  to  come  within  reach  of  its 
tongue.  He  watched 

"  a  wondrous  Argosy, 
The  Armada  of  the  sky !  " 

He  watched  Venus  pouring  the  loveliness  of 
the  afterlight  into  her  cup.  During  a  spell  of 
sharp  unseasonable  cold,  he  saw  the  young  crea 
tures  shiver  as  they  came  homeward  against  the 
east  wind;  and  not  so  many  years  later,  since 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  171 

he  was  still  a  youth  when  he  told  tales  to  his 
youngest  son,  he  wrote : 

" Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  rain? 

The  East- Wind,  Arty ;  and  farmers  know 
That  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane, 
When  the  East  begins  to  blow !" 

He  learned  that  a  southeast  storm  is  six  hours 
coming,  six  hours  at  its  height,  and  six  hours  going 
—  to  the  minute. 

When  he  was  let  out  of  his  prison,  he  felt  ban 
ished  and  estranged.  The  family  treated  him  dis 
tantly.  On  the  street  Miss  Moffit  hurried  by  him ; 
she  feared  lest  he  might  shoot.  So  he  kept  by  him 
self  for  awhile,  and,  for  days  together,  tramped 
to  Greenville  and  watched  the  workmen  laying 
railroad  ties.  So  well  he  watched  them  and  so 
observantly,  that  when  he  was  grown,  he  directed 
the  laying  of  a  stretch  of  the  first  section  of  the 
first  Pacific  Railway. 

As  in  the  bygone  summers,  the  boys  sat  among 
the  gravestones  on  the  burying-ground  slope,  and 
Edmund  in  the  midst  of  them.  But  although  he 
continued  to  be  the  youngest  as  well  as  the 
smallest,  he  was  their  leader  when  it  came  to 


172    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

tales  of  eye-witnessed  encounters  with  ghosts, 
in  particular  with  General  Jed's.  He  unnerved 
his  mates  to  a  degree  that  the  boldest  durst  not 
pass  the  lane  after  dark.  Poor  little  George  B, 
-  George  was  always  termed  little,  although  he 
was  not  so  exceedingly  short  of  stature,  —  when 
called  upon  to  choose  between  being  pursued  to 
bed  by  his  father  and  having  to  face  alone  the 
shadows  cast  by  his  tallow  dip,  preferred  the 
chastening  which  seemeth  grievous  to  the  com 
panionship  of  his  overwrought  imagination  ! 

Ed  Harland  revolted  once  but  was  everlast 
ingly  downed. 

"Stedman,"  said  Harland,  "you  talk  as  if  you 
dast  do  anything." 

"Try  me,"  said  Edmund. 

"I  dast  you  to  go  into  the  Huntington  vault." 

"I  walked  all  around  inside  it  yesterday,"  said 
Edmund  coldly. 

"On  your  honor?" 

"Ain't-thet-wet?"  said  Edmund,  thrusting  his 
forefinger  into  his  mouth  and  withdrawing  it. 
"Ain't- that-dry?"  he  went  on,  stropping  his 
finger  across  his  trousers'  seat. 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  173 

"  Cut-your-throat-if-you-tell-a-lie  ?  "  inquired 
little  George. 

"Yes,"  said  Edmund.  And  there  was  not  a 
boy  who  disbelieved  him.  They  stared  at  him 
in  mute  surmise. 

"Did  you  see  anything?"  Tom  at  length 
questioned. 

Edmund  nodded.  Reticent  as  Lazarus,  he 
would  not  say  a  word.  His  reserve  awed  them 
more  than  speech. 

"Miss  Moffit,"  remarked  Edmund,  the  next 
evening,  to  the  mantua-maker  who  was  stay 
ing  overtime  to  work  upon  his  clothes,  "are 
you  fearful  when  you  go  home  alone  in  the 
dark?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Moffit,  extracting  a  pin  from 
her  person  to  make  fast  a  pleat  in  his  new  breeches ; 
"no,  but  I  do  not  think  it  proper  for  a  female  to 
go  abroad  after  dusk  without  an  escort." 

"But  I  don't  believe  that  any  one  would  dast  to 
touch  you  because  you  are  so  full  of  pins,"  said 
Edmund  feelingly;  "I'll  beau  you  home,  if  you 
would  like  to  have  me,  Miss  Moffit.  Would  you 
feel  timid  with  me?" 


174    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"Oh,  no!"  exclaimed  Miss  Moffit;  and  when 
the  hour  came,  they  were  on  the  road. 

They  passed  Betty  Darben's  ruinous  wall  and 
descended  into  the  hollow. 

"Can  you  remember  when  Betty  Darben 
hanged  herself?"  inquired  her  escort  genially. 
"I  can.  My,  but  she  looked  queer!  But  she 
didn't  look  half  so  queer  as  our  Jerry  looked  when 
he  hanged  himself  from  our  apple  tree.  Did  you 
see  him,  Miss  Moffit?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Moffit  briefly. 

"If  ever  you  would  like  to  see  a  hanged  person, 
or  a  corpse,  I  will  let  you  know  if  I  find  one.  I 
found  Jerry  myself.  I  am  quite  a  hand  at  finding 
hanged  people.  We  might  find  one  now;  we 
might  walk  straight  into  some  one  hanged  from 
one  of  the  trees,  and  we  might  hit  him  with 
our  faces  so  that  he  would  swing  back  and 
forth" - 

"Can't  you  find  something  else  to  talk  about 
than  suicides,  Edmund?"  exclaimed  the  lady. 

"Oh,  yes !"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"Then  keep  still,"  said  Miss  Moffit  in  nervous 
haste. 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  175 

Blackness  dropped  like  a  well  before  them. 
The  footbridge  appeared  to  have  fallen  into  it. 
The  unearthly  screeching  of  an  owl  afar  or  near, 
the  eddying  brook,  the  silent  hushes  more  nerve- 
racking  than  sound,  drew  Miss  Moffit's  ears 
now  this  way  and  now  that. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  a  vault,  Miss  Moffit?" 
spoke  up  Edmund  once  more. 

Miss  Moffit  stopped  short  as  if  she  were  lis 
tening  to  something.  "Don't  talk  so  loudly," 
she  said,  between  a  brace  of  shortening  breaths. 

"Well,"  replied  Edmund  in  a  whisper  that 
chilled  her  to  the  marrow,  "I'll  tell  you  how  it  is ; 
in  a  vault  the  corpses  lie  all  around  in  mouldery 
coffins,  but  you  cannot  see  inside  unless  the  covers 
rot  through  and  fall  in.  The  first  coffin  to  the 
right  is  all  dropped  apart,  and  you  can  see  the 
corpse,  and  the  corpse  is  as  black  as  black,  and 
his  eyes  are  holes,  and  they  keep  staring  at  you 
without  seeing  anything  ..." 

"Land !  Master  Edmund,  when  you  are  quiet, 
you  act  so  queer !  And  when  you  talk,  how  you 
do  talk !  You  give  a  body  the  creeps." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  ghost,  Miss  Moffit?" 


176    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Miss  Moffit  was  walking  as  if  to  overtake  her 
evanished  girlhood.  She  was  already  past  the 
Hollow  and  was  taking  the  hill  in  anxious  jerks. 

"I'd  a  deal  liefer  walk  to  the  Green  alone, 
Master  Edmund,  than  have  you  along.  You'll 
be  raising  the  dead,  next." 

"I'll  go  home  now  if  you  would  like  me  to," 
said  Edmund  humbly. 

Miss  Moffit  grasped  his  shoulder.  The  en 
trance  to  the  Burying-ground  Lane  was  upon 
her.  "No,"  she  said  instantly.  She  did  not 
let  go  her  grip  of  him  until  —  the  long  way  over 
past  —  her  sister  opened  the  door  and  let  her  in 
through  the  candlelit  vines. 

The  door  closed  on  Edmund  and  left  him  grop 
ing  for  the  gate.  Stumbling  and  scampering 
he  took  to  the  road,  and  feeling  the  shingly  slope 
ebb  beneath  his  feet,  knew  that  he  was  passing 
the  old  brick  schoolhouse,  and  nearing  the  Hollow. 
Betty  had  certainly  looked  queer;  the  sight  of 
poor  Jerry  had  make  him  wet  and  cold;  old 
General  Jed  was  grewsome  beyond  f orgetfulness ; 
and  all  three  of  them  and  innumerable  others 
were  lying  right  before  him,  behind  the  weeping 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  177 

willows.  His  heart  beat  fast.  Was  he  af 
frighted  ?  No  !  he  told  himself.  When  he  reached 
the  lane  into  the  Burying-ground,  he  clambered 
to  the  sidewalk  and  made  himself  walk  ex 
ceedingly  slow  past  the  entrance,  in  order  to 
give  old  Jed  a  chance  to  catch  him  by  the 
ankles!  But  neither  General  Jed  nor  Betty, 
nor  yet  the  ghost  of  anybody  else  emerged. 
When  he  gained  the  Hollow,  he  was  surer  of  his 
footing  and  laid  legs  to  the  ground  like  a  rabbit 
pursued.  Within  sight  of  the  lamp  in  his  guar 
dian's  window,  he  was  ashamed  of  himself  for  hav 
ing  run,  and  went  back  through  the  Hollow  - 
back  and  forth,  and  down  and  up.  A  fearful 
fascination  mastered  him.  The  curfew  rang; 
still  he  paced  and  paced  again  the  shadowy 
ravine.  A  clock  in  the  Richard  house  struck 
ten.  Up  he  scurried  and  down  —  drenched  with 
night-damp.  He  knew  now  that  he  was  afraid, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  determined  not  to 
go  home  until  he  had  gotten  the  best  of  his  fear. 
If  there  was  a  ghost  anywhere  in  all  the  uni 
verse,  he  would  give  it  the  chance  of  its  life  to 
come  out  like  a  man.  As  he  crossed  the  foot- 


i;8    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

bridge  for  the  twentieth  time,  on  his  way  toward 
the  Green,  suddenly  a  shape  of  darkness,  looming 
larger  than  mortal,  crowned  the  brow  of  the  hill 
for  a  slow  instant  and  then  descended  toward 
him.  It  was  a  spectre.  It  was  coming  for  him. 
His  thoughts  stopped  short,  but  his  feet  did  not 
fail  him.  Faster  and  faster  he  walked  to  meet 
it;  he  ran;  he  met  it  head-on;  he  stove  the 
schoolmaster  full  in  the  paunch.  Mr.  Aikman's 
wind  was  clean  knocked  out  of  him. 

"Hello,  Stedman,"  he  said,  when  he  had  re 
covered  enough  to  know  what  had  struck  him. 

"Hello,  Aikman,"  said  Stedman. 

"You  seem  to  have  been  bound  my  way," 
remarked  the  schoolmaster,  dryly. 

Edmund  paced  along  beside  him.  In  the  lan 
guage  of  Scripture,  he  "joined  himself  unto  him." 
"Our  names  are  a  deal  alike,"  he  observed  as 
they  proceeded. 

"Both  of  us,  it  seems,  is  a  'man." 

"Only  you  have  an  Aik  in  your  name  instead 
of  a  Sted,"  replied  Edmund,  sparkling. 

"I  acknowledge  I  have  a  little  ache  in  front  of 
me,"  said  the  rammed  schoolmaster. 


THE  WANDER  SUMMER  179 

Edmund  laughed  in  delight.  Mr.  Aikman 
almost  laughed. 

So  they  reached  the  house  and  were  parting, 
Mr.  Aikman  to  climb  Wooden  Hill  to  Blanket 
Fair  by  the  front  staircase,  Edmund  to  climb 
thither  by  the  back  way.  But  something  timid 
yet  confident  was  thrust  through  the  baluster 
rails  at  Mr.  Aikman. 

"What's  this,  Edmund?'7  said  the  master, 
glancing  down. 

"The  right  hand  of  fellowship!"  said  Edmund 
awkwardly. 

Mr.  Aikman  laughed  at  last.  He  grasped 
Edmund's  hand  and  shook  it.  "Edmund,  you 
are  a  companionable  little  cuss.  Good  night !" 


XIV 

GOD  TEMPERING  THE  WIND 

OF  all  the  astonishing  lots  that  ever  befell 
man,  the  most  astonishing  was  the  lot  that  befell 
Edmund  on  a  day  of  the  autumn  when  he  was 
eight  years  old. 

His  uncle  sent  for  him  to  come  to  him  in  the 
library.  "Edmund,"  he  said,  "are  you  aware 
that  your  mother  is  about  to  become  Mrs.  Kinney 
of  Newark?" 

"Will  I  still  be  her  little  boy?"  questioned  Ed 
mund,  after  an  anxious  moment. 

"Of  course  you  will  still  be  her  son;  she  is 
your  mother  whomever  she  marries.  The  dif 
ference  is  this :  that  whereas  now  you  have  no 
father,  when  your  mother  marries  Mr.  Kinney, 
he  will  stand  in  your  father's  place;  he  will  be 
a  father  to  you.  Have  you  any  message  to  send 
to  Mr.  Kinney?" 


GOD  TEMPERING  THE  WIND      181 

Edmund's  color  came  and  passed  like  breath 
on  a  pane.  He  was  bewildered  with  excess  of 
joy.  Another  father !  He  had  overheard  it 
gossiped  that  his  mother  was  to  marry  now  this 
gentleman  and  now  that,  but  none  had  told  him 
that  the  gentleman  whom  she  wedded  would 
be  his  father ! 

"When  you  write  to  him,"  Edmund  at  last  re 
plied,  "tell  him  that  I  love  him  already  !  " 

On  the  sixteenth  day  of  November  of  the  year 
1841,  Edmund's  mother  was  married  to  the  Hon 
orable  William  Burnett  Kinney,  owner  of  the 
Newark  Daily  Advertiser ;  and,  as  the  bride  re 
cords  in  her  "Journal,"  she  went  the  following 
week  with  her  husband  to  see  her  little  sons  and 
to  spend  Thanksgiving  Day. 

Very  grand  indeed  felt  Edmund  in  his  posses 
sion  of  a  new  papa.  The  father  whom  he  had 
known  in  babyhood  was  slight  and  lithe.  Mr. 
Kinney  was  stout  and  straight  and  stately.  He 
cut  off  the  tips  of  the  bittersweet  vine  with  his 
cane  as  if  they  nothing  mattered.  He  trod  the 
ground  impressively ;  his  foot  had  no  more  sen 
sibility  than  his  boot  for  trifles.  He  crushed 


1 82    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Charlie's  toy  soldier  under  his  heel  and  did  not 
guess  it.  Edmund  treasured  that  little  crushed 
soldier.  Even  his  guardian,  whom  he  respected 
greatly,  would  have  been  aware  that  he  was 
treading  on  something  and  would  have  halted. 
Edmund  felt  instinctively  that  Mr.  Kinney  would 
stop  at  nothing  short  of  his  own  bulk. 

Every  blind  around  the  Green  was  closed  as 
the  Honorable  Mr.  Kinney  passed  —  ladies  were 
peeping  between  the  slats  at  him.  The  parson 
preached  his  Thanksgiving  sermon  to  empty 
minds;  everybody's  wits  were  gadding.  Every 
body  was  thinking  of  the  bride  and  groom,  and 
each  was  telling  himself  that  Elizabeth  Dodge 
had  kept  her  weather  eye  open.  The  Stedman 
household,  conscious  of  the  fresh  feather  stuck 
in  the  cap  of  its  prestige,  was  pleased.  But 
Edmund  was  a  deal  prouder  than  they  all.  The 
birthday  shilling  that  he  had  been  hoarding  to 
present  as  a  wedding  gift  to  his  mother  he  put 
into  his  pocket.  Money  within  touch,  he  felt 
more  in  keeping  with  the  honor  of  walking  be 
hind  Mr.  Kinney. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  Edmund  escorted  Mr. 


GOD   TEMPERING  THE   WIND      183 

Kinney  along  the  Green  to  the  store,  Mr.  Fuller 
ran  on  ahead  to  unbar  the  shutters  and  open  the 
door.  This  walk  was  Edmund's  first  chance  to 
be  alone  with  his  new  father,  and  he  sparkled 
with  devotions.  When  Mr.  Kinney  inadver 
tently  hit  him  with  his  cane,  Edmund  confided  to 
him  that  it  did  not  hurt  a  bit,  —  that  he  liked  it. 

Conversation  did  not  flourish. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Kinney,  after  a  pon 
derous  silence,  "you  are  eight  years  old,  are  you 
not,  Edmund?" 

"Going  on  nine,"  answered  Edmund,  skipping 
beside  him.  He  had  been  saying  "going  on  nine" 
since  his  anniversary  morning  not  yet  seven  weeks 
gone  by. 

Edmund's  correction  appeared  to  close  the 
subject.  Mr.  Kinney  was  silent  once  more. 

"I  can  let  you  have  a  chew  of  tobacco,  if  you 
would  like  it,"  spoke  up  the  little  lad  who  was  so 
eager  to  be  a  son  to  him.  "I  have  a  piece  of  a 
plug  I  found  in  front  of  Peck's,  and  I'd  love  to 
give  it  to  you." 

"What  I  have  in  my  mouth,  Edmund,"  said 
Mr.  Kinney  with  dignity,  "is  a  piece  of  lovage." 


1 84    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"But  if  you  would  rather  chew  tobacco,  you 
need  not  mind  me,"  persisted  Edmund.  "I  have 
never  chewed/'  he  went  on  confidingly,  "'cept 
Ladies'  Chewing  Tobacco.  Do  you  know  Ladies' 
Chewing  Tobacco  ?  It  is  a  soft,  white,  freckled 
flower  that  blossoms  in  the  spring,  and  after  you 
have  chewed  it  quite  a  while,  you  can  spit  just  as 
if  you  had  a  regular  quid.  Sometimes  the  stalk 
is  doubled  up  as  if  the  flowers  were  laughing,  — 
but  don't  you  eat  them  when  they  are  wrinkled ! 
They  have  teeny  green  bugs  under  the  leaves ! 
I  did  not  know  it  at  first." 

Silence. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  me  call  you  ' father '  ?" 
he  inquired,  after  a  wistful  interim. 

"Edmund,  you  may  address  me  in  whatever 
way  you  think  proper,"  replied  Mr.  Kinney. 

"Well,"  said  Edmund,  sighing,  "perhaps  I 
had  better  call  you  Mr.  Kinney  —  until  we  are 
better  acquainted.  But  if  I  should  write  to  you, 
I  will  call  you  ' father'  in  the  letter." 

At  the  store,  Mr.  Kinney  drew  out  a  roll 
of  greenbacks,  and  Mr.  Fuller  had  no  change, 
having  parted  with  his  cash  the  night  before 


GOD  TEMPERING  THE  WIND      185 

to  Mrs.  Whaley,  who  came  with  a  five-dollar 
note. 

"  How  much  money  do  you  want,  Mr.  Kinney  ?  " 
asked  Edmund,  diving  his  hand  into  his  pants' 
pocket,  as  if  into  a  mint  of  silver. 

"Twenty-four  cents,  Edmund,"  said  the  gentle 
man,  and  out  sprang  Edmund's  shilling  joyously. 

"  Never  mind  the  penny,"  said  Mr.  Kinney  to 
Mr.  Fuller;  — and  to  Edmund,  "I'll  make  it  all 
right  with  you,  my  boy,  —  I  have  plenty  of  change 
at  the  house."  But  he  never  paid  Edmund  back 
his  shilling ;  he  never  thought  of  it  again. 

When  Edmund  and  his  new  papa  set  forth 
towards  Fuller's  store,  Edmund's  hand,  like  a 
tendril  in  the  wind,  hovered  airily  around  Mr. 
Kinney 's  ready  to  cling  at  a  touch.  When  they 
returned,  Edmund's  legs  lagged;  his  arms  hung 
as  if  wilted.  Mr.  Kinney  went  directly  to  his 
bride  and  stationed  himself  beside  her  on  the 
sofa.  Edmund  lingered  shyly  at  the  threshold 
for  a  moment  and  then  walked  off  to  his  room. 

In  his  room  he  found  Charlie  seated  on  the 
floor,  trying  to  surmount  the  mystery  of  winding 
a  top  which  the  visitors  had  brought  him. 


i86    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

Edmund  stood  and  looked  at  him.  "Charlie," 
he  questioned  earnestly,  "do  you  know  that  that 
beautiful  lady  is  our  mother?" 

Charlie  nodded. 

"When  you  kiss  her,  she  kisses  you  back. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  live  with  some  one  like  her 
all  the  time?" 

Charlie  nodded ;  artless,  innocent  sage  of  six, 
what  else  was  there  to  do  ? 

Edmund  grasped  him  by  the  shoulders  in 
despairing  fierceness.  "Charlie,  are  you  going 
to  let  her  go?"  he  demanded.  "Don't  you 
know  that  she  is  the  only  mother  we  have  ?  Don't 
you  know  that  if  we  let  her  go  away  without  us, 
we  will  never  be  her  little  boys  again,  —  never, 
never?" 

Charlie  nodded.  Charlie,  Charlie,  what  an 
unresisting,  angelic  little  wight  you  were  ! 

Edmund  shook  him,  —  Edmund  unstrung  with 
inward  sobs.  "Go  talk  with  her,  I  tell  you. 
Don't  you  know  that  you  are  her  little  baby? 
She  may  listen  to  you.  Don't  you  know  that 
God  sent  you  to  her  to  comfort  her  when  He  was 
going  to  take  away  our  true  papa?  Haven't  I 


GOD  TEMPERING  THE  WIND      187 

told  you  that  she  said  it  ?  Put  your  arms  around 
her,  Charlie ;  tell  her  that  you  are  her  baby!  " 

"Yes,"  said  Charlie  softly,  but  on  the  doorsill 
he  turned  back  and  shook  his  head. 

"She  don't  want  us,"  he  said  guilelessly,  and 
nothing  that  Edmund  could  say  prevailed  on  him 
to  intercede.  He  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  went 
on  with  his  labors  over  his  top. 

To  Edmund,  Charlie  seemed  no  longer  a  brother 
but  an  unrelated,  gentle  waif  too  silly- witted  to 
feel  a  loss  or  fight  against  it.  Edmund's  new 
papa,  his  mother,  and  now  his  brother  —  all  he 
loved  was  slipping  from  him. 

But  he  could  not  keep  away  from  his  mother. 
He  would  talk  to  her  about  her  new  husband; 
that  seemed  the  topic  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

He  entered  the  room  very  delicately.  She 
was  sitting  alone.  At  the  sight  of  her  fair,  beauti 
ful  hand  outstretched  to  him,  he  forgot  his  studied 
part,  and  ran  to  her. 

"Mother — -mother,"  he  murmured,  with  his 
cheek  against  her  shoulder. 

She  drew  back  her  head  the  better  to  see  her 
boy,  and  instantly  he  remembered  himself.  "I 


i88    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

won't  cry/'  he  told  her.  "  You  need  not  be  afraid, 
Mother.  I  will  not  let  a  single  tear  fall  on  your 
pretty  dress."  He  stroked  her  shoulder,  his  eyes 
following  his  fingers  with  fain,  expressive  glances. 

"Do  you  love  me,  little  son?" 

"Oh!"  was  all  he  said,  and  he  stood  with  in 
drawn  breath  and  quivering  chin.  Then  he 
slipped  down  by  her  chair,  with  his  head  against 
her  knee,  but  with  his  coat  sleeve  drawn  safe 
across  his  lids.  When  he  lifted  his  head,  he 
whispered,  "I  should  judge  that  you  have  married 
together  with  a  very  fine  man."  He  was  remem 
bering  his  part !  "Is  my  new  papa  a  governor?" 

Elizabeth  smiled,  self -pleased.  "I  think  I 
have  done  very  well.  No,  Edmund,  Mr.  Kinney 
is  an  editor.  He  read  my  writings,  and  that  is 
how  he  came  to  seek  me  out." 

"I  heard  Joab,  the  new  man  who  does  our 
chores,  say  that  a  mole  could  see  that  Miss  Eliza 
beth  had  the  governor  right  under  her  thumb, 
and  I  thought  Joab  meant  Mr.  Kinney." 

Elizabeth  laughed  mirthfully.  "I  am  not  sure 
but  that  Joab  did  mean  Mr.  Kinney  !" 

Edmund's  eyes  shone  lustrous  through  return- 


GOD  TEMPERING  THE  WIND      189 

ing  mistiness.  "You  belong  to  Mr.  Kinney 
now,  don't  you,  Mama?" 

Elizabeth  laughed  her  musical  laughter.  "Or 
Mr.  Kinney  belongs  to  me?" 

"But  Charlie  and  I  belong  to  you ;  we  belonged 
to  you  first,  didn't  we?" 

There  was  no  gainsaying  it,  and  because  there 
was  no  gainsaying  it,  he  climbed  beguilingly  into 
her  lap  and,  with  his  hand  upon  her  heart,  caressed 
her  bosom  with  his  hand. 

"Edmund,  you  are  an  adorable  little  lad  — 
you  are  so  loving ;  do  you  know  it  ?  You  are  an 
embodied  caress!" 

He  could  not  tell  what  to  say.  But  in  the 
earnestness  of  his  love  for  her,  self-consciousness 
was  not  in  him. 

"Mother,  your  eyes  are  the  color  of  the  little 
blue  flowers  in  the  meadow  that  look  as  if  they 
were  sewed  in  cross-stitch." 

"  You  pretty  Imaginer !    You  mean  the  bluets." 

"Mother,  I  can  do  cross-stitch.  Mother,  when 
I  am  a  man,  I  am  going  to  buy  you  a  dress,  and 
I  am  going  to  cross-stitch  it  all  over  with  little 
blue  eyes." 


A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

Eager,  innocent  darling  —  already  embroider 
ing  the  blue  fields  of  her  eyes  with  the  shadows 
of  his  own. 

"Mother,  do  you  love  Mr.  Kinney  very,  very 
much?" 

"Why,  yes,  Edmund,  I  love  him.  But  you 
see,  my  darling,  I  had  to  think  and  plan  for  the 
future.  It  was  necessary  to  consider  your  wel 
fare  and  Charlie's,  —  and  mine  also.  You  will 
understand  it  better  when  you  are  older." 

"I  can  understand  anything  that  is  explained 
to  me!"  he  said  in  a  child's  pure  wisdom.  She 
enclosed  his  fondling  hand  in  hers  and  tapped 
with  it  lightly  on  the  chair-arm.  Her  veined, 
veiling  lids  alighted  on  her  cheek. 

"Mother  needed  some  one  to  love  and  care  for 
her,  Edmund.  Mother  was  all  alone  in  the 
world." 

His  hands  sprang  to  her  temples  to  compel 
attention.  "I  tried  to  come  to  you,"  he  cried 
passionately.  "Don't  you  remember  that  I 
wrote  and  told  you?  Mother,  I  was  almost 
there!" 

"But  you  are  only  a  little  boy." 


GOD   TEMPERING  THE  WIND      191 

"It  was  God  that  made  me  little.  But  I  can 
take  care  of  you,  Mother.  I  will  sit  all  night 
and  watch  over  you ;  and  when  you  take  your 
nap  in  the  afternoon,  I  will  not  let  a  fly  come  near 
you.  And,  Mother,  I  would  have  married  you 
myself,  but  Tom  told  me  that  the  United  States 
wouldn't  let  me  because  I  was  your  son !  Mother, 
don't  you  see?" 

His  deep  eyes  shone  like  twin  lamps  newly 
lighted.  She  could  not  bear  to  put  them  out. 

"Mother/5  he  pleaded,  "I  can  love  you  although 
I  am  so  little.  Darling,"  he  whispered  in  touch 
ing  worship,  remembering  that  it  became  him  to 
entreat  her  as  a  lover  should  entreat  his  dear 
one,  "I  will  love  you  all  over !  I  will  walk  with 
you  under  the  rose  tree,  and  enfold  you  in  my  arms, 
and  not  speak ;  but  just  say  —  Oh  —  Oh." 

With  a  stifled  moan  she  hid  her  face  in  his 
hair:  but  at  length  she  half  withdrew  her  lips, 
and  when  she  did  withdraw  them,  she  said 
steadily,  "Edmund,  I  would  take  you  to  live 
with  me,  if  it  were  possible.  Do  you  not  know 
that  I  would?  But  Mr.  Kinney  has  a  grown 
son  of  his  own  already.  He  might  not  take 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

it  kindly  from  me,  if  I  had  you  around  the 
house." 

"But  I  will  fight  him,  if  he  isn't  kind  to  you," 
cried  Edmund,  starting  up  in  a  ferment.  "I 
fight  all  the  fellows  that  pick  on  little  Charlie; 
I  don't  care  how  large  they  are.  And  when  the 
big  Spaniard  gets  me  by  the  head,  I  kick  him  in 
the  shins!" 

"But  listen,  my  son.  These  are  excellent 
Christian  people  with  whom  you  live.  You 
have  plenty  to  eat  and  are  comfortably  housed. 
Why  are  you  not  content  to  stay  here  and  be 
happy?" 

Was  it  possible  that  she  did  not  know!  He 
locked  his  hands  behind  his  head  in  unreconciled 
restraint !  He  was  trying  to  be  manly,  but  again 
his  chin  was  quivering,  his  eyes  were  filling. 
"  Mother,  I  think  it  must  be  —  because  I  belong 
to  you ! "  The  hands  that  had  been  locked  were 
flung  around  her  neck.  "Mama!  —  Mama!" 
he  sobbed  in  abandon,  "when  our  pastor  preaches, 
'Can  a  mother  forget  her  suckling  child?'  I 
always  know  that  he  means  that  she  cannot,  — 
and  I  always  know  that  it  is  you !" 


GOD   TEMPERING  THE  WIND      193 

"I  forget  you?  Never,  never,  my  baby,  my 
Poet-boy !  But  oh,  my  child,  I  am  so  helpless  !" 

And  there  in  the  doorway  towered  Mr.  Kinney, 
frowning. 

"Edmund/'  said  that  gentleman,  "you  would 
best  go  out  and  play." 

Play !  —  tear-splashed. 

"Mrs.  Kinney  needs  to  lie  down  and  rest," 
Mr.  Kinney  added,  when  Edmund  did  not  stir. 

"You  are  going,  Dearest,  aren't  you?"  whis 
pered  Elizabeth  to  her  son. 

He  nodded. 

"And  you  are  going  to  be  brave  and  bright," 
she  babbled,  laying  her  soft  lips  to  the  shell  that 
was  his  ear;  "you  are  going  to  be  a  gentleman, 
and  if  God  wills,  a  poet?  Above  all  else,  you 
are  going  to  be  honorable?" 

It  was  their  secret,  —  hers  and  his,  —  he 
whispered  "Yes." 

The  brow  of  the  groom,  who  stood  aloof  and 
alien,  darkened.  Man  that  he  was,  he  was 
jealous  of  the  orphaned  child. 

But  Elizabeth,  the  young  bride,  held  fast  her 
first-born  for  a  moment  more.  Lingeringly  she 


194    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

kissed  him.     "And  Edmund,  you  do  not  think 
hard  of  Mother?"  she  pleaded. 

Edmund,  spent  with  the  pain  of  his  loving 
heart,  slipped  gently  to  the  floor.  "  Mother," 
he  said  in  winning  sweetness,  "/  think  that  you 
are  very  kind  to  little  boys!" 


XV 

FULLER'S  STORE 

FOR  a  fortnight,  Fuller's  store  gave  the  go-by 
to  political  wranglings  in  order  to  gossip  over 
Elizabeth  Dodge  Stedman  Kinney's  marriage, 
husband,  and  visit. 

Edmund,  perched  on  the  counter,  dealt  out 
details  gloryingly.  "My  mother,"  he  boasted, 
"why,  my  mother  could  have  married  a  lot  of 
men.  But  it  is  against  the  United  States  to 
marry  more  than  one  man  at  a  time.  My  mother 
could  have  married  all  the  men  in  New  Jersey, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  United  States.  There 
was  one  gentleman  named  '  Esquire '  —  I  know 
that  he  was  in  love  with  her.  I  heard  my  Uncle 
James  say  it.  But  he  died,  so  she  married  Mr. 
Kinney.  Mr.  Kinney  is  real  nice.  When  my 
mother  says  to  him,  'Pick  up  my  thimble  that  I 
have  dropped/  he  gets  down  on  his  knees  and 


196    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

searches  till  he  finds  it.  My  Aunt  Abby  makes 
her  curls  with  quince  seeds,  but  God  curled  my 
mother's  hair.  My  mother's  hair  is  like  the  sun 
when  it  begins  to  shine  through  the  trees  before 
you  are  out  of  bed  in  the  morning,  and  you  squint 
at  it.  If  you  pull  a  curl  of  hers  out  straight  and 
then  let  go  the  end  of  it,  it  will  wind  around  your 
finger  in  teeny,  teeny,  golden  curls,  ever  so  many  of 
them,  —  millions  of  them,  I  guess.  My  mother's 
curls  cling  just  like  babies'  fingers ;  but  they  look 
like  gold.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  they  were 
some  kind  of  soft  gold  like  the  gold  that  the  angels 
have  in  heaven.  The  streets  in  heaven  are  gold, 
and  there  is  no  weeping  there  nor  any  tears.  If  an 
angel  slipped  down,  a  little  young  girl-angel  that 
could  not  fly  very  well,  she  would  hurt  herself 
if  the  streets  were  hard,  and  she  could  not  help 
crying  just  a  little.  So  I  suspect  that  God  makes 
the  gold  soft  like  moss.  My  father  left  me  a 
fortune.  I  heard  our  Joab  say  to  Sambo,  'I 
swan,  the  Jedge  is  making  a  good  haul  out  of  thet 
job  ;  he  clears  a  slick  five  hundred  an-nul.'  But 
Abijam  Lewis  says  that  my  uncle  doesn't  make  a 
red  cent  out  of  me,  not  a  red  cent.  Mr.  Kinney 


FULLER'S   STORE  197 

hasn't  a  bit  of  money  that  isn't  gold.  He  never 
carries  shillings.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if 
my  cousin  Tom  espoused  Mary  Hyde.  I  saw 
him  look  at  her.  When  he  becomes  in  love,  he 
will  be  desperate.  I  know  cussiderable  about 
falling  in  love.  I  told  my  Uncle  Charles  that 
Elizabeth  Strong  was  going  to  espouse  him,  and 
it  turned  out  just  as  I  perdicted.  When  I  was  a 
little  boy,  I  didn't  know  what  twins  were.  My 
Aunt  Eunice  said  to  my  Uncle  James,  '  James, 
Charles  has  twins ! '  and  he  said,  '  Blessed  is  the 
man  that  hath  his  quiver  full  of  them.'  But 
twins  are  babies !  I  would  not  like  to  have  very 
many  of  them  —  I'd  just  as  soon  have  a  few. 
Queen  Anne  had  twenty-four  children,  and  they 
all  became  defunct.  When  I  read  about  it,  I 
said  to  Joab,  '  Joab,  I'd  be  awfully  sorry  for  you 
if  you  should  have  twenty-four  little  children, 
and  they  should  be  defunct.'  But  Joab  said, 
'I  should  be  more  sorry  for  myself  if  they  lived. 
What  would  I  do  with  them?'  Joab  is  right. 
To  feed  and  educate  seventeen  or  eighteen  head, 
especially  of  twins,  would  be  a  cussiderable  re 
sponsibility." 


198    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

Queen  Anne  was  ancient  history.  Fuller's 
store  had  heard  before  from  Edmund  touching 
her  royal  joys  and  sorrows.  Old  Dailey  sent  a 
squirt  of  tobacco  juice  from  the  pork  barrel  to 
the  stove,  —  a  good  eight  feet.  It  was  his  way 
of  prefacing  a  remark. 

"  Edmund,  what  is  an-nul?"  he  inquired. 

"An-nul  is  what  Joab  said/'  replied  Edmund. 

The  loungers  pulled  sly  faces. 

"If  you  don't  know  what  it  means,  why  don't 
you  look  it  up  in  that  dictionary  of  your  uncle's 
which  you  talk  so  much  about?" 

"I  am  going  to  look  it  up  when  I  get  the  op 
portunity,"  replied  Edmund. 

"Did  you  look  up  Jezebel?"  asked  Mr. 
Learned's  manservant. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  retorted  the  boy,  flushing. 
"Jezebel  isn't  in  the  dictionary;  but  'tiring' 
is,"  he  added  pointedly.  Jezebel  had  vexed  Ed 
mund's  sympathetic  soul  immeasurably  because 
if  she  "  tired  her  head  "  at  the  window,  he  could  not 
understand  why  she  did  not  draw  it  in.  It  was 
grievous  enough  to  go  to  dogs  as  completely  as 
she  did,  without  first  tiring  one's  head. 


FULLER'S   STORE  199 

"Don't  tease  the  lad,"  interposed  Mr.  Fuller 
mildly.  "He's  learning  as  fast  as  he  can;  he's 
young  yet." 

"Dodo  has  drawn  a  high  old  picture  of  Mr. 
Peck,"  resumed  Edmund,  to  get  back  at  Mr. 
Learned's  manservant.  "Mr.  Peck  is  stepping 
into  his  chaise,  and  B.  J.  is  pushing  him  up  by 
the  elbow.  Dollars  are  dropping  out  from  Mr. 
Peck's  cuff.  Dodo  calls  it"  - 

"Aren't  you  going  to  read  us  the  newspaper?" 
again  interposed  Mr.  Fuller.  He  was  the  village 
peacemaker. 

"Yes,  read  us  the  news!"  cried  a  farmer  who 
had  stopped  to  hear  the  news  read. 

They  depended  on  Edmund  to  read  aloud  the 
Courier  to  them.  He  read  a  paragraph  or  two 
in  his  fresh  treble.  He  came  to  the  word  'loco- 
focoism.'  He  scanned  it  an  instant.  "Pickles," 
he  said,  and  started  on. 

Ed  Harland  haw-hawed. 

"You  need  not  haw-haw  at  me;  I'm  not 
your  girl,"  remarked  Edmund,  glancing  over 
the  top  of  the  newspaper  at  the  handsome 
youth. 


200    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

"Didn't  know  that  Eddie  Harland  had  a  girl !" 
cried  a  gaffer.  "Who's  your  girl,  Eddie?" 

With  brows  drawn  down  and  mouth  set  fast, 
Harland  stared  vacant-eyed  out  of  doors.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  never  spoken  in  his  life  and 
never  intended  to  speak. 

"  Harland,  you  look  like  a  predestinated  oyster/' 
piped  Edmund  in  ingenuous  honesty. 

"I'd  rather  look  like  a  predestinated  oyster 
than  act  like  a  predestined  fool,  Captain  Mar- 
ryat,"  retorted  Ed  Harland,  stung  to  speech. 

"Close  your  shell!"  cried  Edmund  hotly.  He 
had  been  having  too  much  Marryat  from  Harland. 

Harland  closed  it.  He  closed  the  door  also,  — 
closed  it  on  his  heels  and  went  out,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  as  he  disappeared  foot  by  foot  in 
climbing  the  rickety  stairway  to  the  cobbler  who 
had  a  room  on  the  second  landing.  Fuller's 
store  was  a  rambling  building  with  the  butcher 
in  a  basement  opening  on  the  turnpike,  and  with 
Fuller's  store  proper  and  the  cobbler's  fronting 
on  Cross  Keys  Lane  and  the  Green. 

The  cobbler  was  a  philosopher  and  a  character. 
There  was  always  a  pair  of  boy's  boots  on  his 


FULLER'S   STORE  201 

bench,  and  the  boys  loafed  around  while  he 
worked.  Sometimes  he  drove  them  out,  waving 
his  leathern  apron  and  shooing  them  before  him, 
or  scourging  the  air  with  a  fistful  of  leathern 
thongs.  But  the  boys  came  back  like  flies.  The 
cobbler  was  better  than  Fuller's  store. 

"Seems  to  me,  Edmund,  I  have  heard  some 
thing  about  you  and  young  Halle  tt,"  drawled 
old  Dailey.  "  Come,  now,  what  was  it,  Innocence  ? 
Didn't  he  send  you  down  to  the  wharf  to  buy  a 
racy  book,  and  what  was  it  you  brought  back  to 
him  ?  Daboll's  Almanac ! " 

Laughter  greeted  Dailey's  sally. 

Edmund  turned  crimson.  "Daboll's  Almanac 
is  a  very  interesting  book,"  he  returned  sturdily. 
"I  read  it.  It  tells  about  the  tide  and  the  moon 
and  the  weather." 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe  you,  Edmund,"  com 
mented  the  bell  ringer. 

Mr.  Fuller  had  gone  to  the  cellar,  and  conversa 
tion,  rid  of  his  watchful  ear,  waxed  careless. 

"Come,  Edmund,"  said  old  Dailey,  and  winked 
at  the  loungers,  "  tell  us  just  how  it  was.  How  do 
you  get  hold  of  these  books  ?  " 


202    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Edmund  felt  that  they  were  making  sport  of 
him,  but  every  one  looked  serious.  Setting  his 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  he  jerked  his  hands 
towards  his  girth,  thrust  his  tongue  into  one 
cheek,  and,  intent  to  acquit  himself  in  all  points 
like  a  man  among  men,  spat  out  into  the  group. 
" There's  a  fellow  in  the  Strand,"  he  began,  "who 
knows  a  place  in  New  York  where  he  can  buy 
them.  And  when  he  goes  to  New  York  he  buys 
them  for  ten  cents  apiece,  but  he  will  sell  them  in 
Norwich  for  a  shilling.  Only  you  mustn't  squeal 
on  him.  I  went  down  to  the  wharf,  —  it  wasn't 
for  Hallett,  but  I  won't  tell  you  whom  it  was 
for.  I  told  the  fellow  what  I  wanted  was  some 
thing  racy,  and  he  gave  me  the  Almanac;  he 
said  that  he  guessed  that  was  about  my  size. 
Then  Hallett  —  but  it  wasn't  Hallett  —  got  mad 
and  called  me  a  softie." 

"Well,  aren't  you  a  softie?"  inquired  Dailey. 

"No,  Sir,  I  am  not." 

"Have  you  never  read  one  of  these  books?" 

"No,  Sir." 

"Why  not?" 

Whetted  by  the  gibes  of  the  old  men,  the  little 


FULLER'S  STORE  203 

lad's  wits  kindled.  "  Because  I  have  never  had 
the  chance!"  he  cried,  blinking  both  eyes  in  an 
attempt  to  wink  like  Dailey. 

Guffaws  rocked  the  rafters.  The  coarseness 
of  the  laughter  repelled  him.  The  fire  in  his  eyes 
sank  in  glowing  cloud. 

" Besides,"  he  added  stoutly,  "I  don't  know 
that  they  are  good  style !  I  promised  my  mother 
that  I  would  never  read  any  books  that  were  not 
good  style.  My  mother  told  me  that  if  I  read 
cheap  books,  I  would  grow  up  and  never  know 
what  it  was  to  appreciate  a  fine  book;  I  would 
have  to  ask  other  people,  *  Is  this  a  fine  book  ? ' 
but  I  would  not  be  able  to  tell  by  myself.  She 
said  that  instead  of  having  a  taste  for  things  that 
counted  for  something,  I  would  be  content  to 
read  trash,  and  I  would  become  like  what  I  read. 
My  mother  says  that  taste  is  like  a  plant,  and  that 
it  grows  if  one  tends  it,  but  that  if  one  neglects 
it  and  leaves  it  to  itself,  it  will  die.  My  mother 
says  that  if  I  do  not  take  care  of  my  taste,  I  will 
lose  it ;  and  that  if  I  once  lose  it,  there  is  not  any 
doctor  that  can  make  it  come  back.  I  am  ter 
ribly  in  fear  of  losing  my  taste." 


204    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Silence  surrounded  him.  This  dissertation  on 
good  taste  seemed  a  rebuke  to  the  morals  of  his 
audience. 

"When  I  read  the  Almanac,  I  was  in  fear  that 
I  might  lose  what  taste  I  have/'  he  continued  in 
innocent  concern,  "  because  I  am  still  somewhat 
young,  so  my  taste  must  be  young;  and  so  it 
would  not  take  so  much  to  kill  it."  He  glanced 
around  the  group :  Dailey,  a  brutal  drunkard 
murdering  his  gentle  wife  by  imperceptible  de 
grees  and  wrecking  the  lives  of  his  babes ;  Jack 
son,  a  worthless  idler;  Jim  Smith,  half-witted; 
Wetherell  whose  word  was  worth  as  little  as  his 
work ;  a  half  score  of  others  —  loungers  and 
loafers,  vicious  or  thriftless,  without  ambition 
and  without  shame,  beneath  honor  and  beneath 
reproach.  It  was  well  enough  for  them  to  read 
bad  books.  His  heart  beat  high  as  he  looked  upon 
them.  He  would  be  a  gentleman ;  he  would  make 
something  of  himself.  He  would  not  be  as  one 
of  them  when  he  grew  up.  He  let  himself  down 
from  the  counter  slowly. 

"What  are  you  reading  now,  Edmund?" 
inquired  Mr.  Fuller  who,  emerging  from  the 


FULLER'S   STORE  205 

cellar  hooded  with  cobwebs,  overtook  the  last 
word. 

"Paradise  Lost,  Sir,"  replied  Edmund.  He  was 
a  child  once  more ;  his  grave  thoughts  made  him 
forget  to  play  the  part  of  a  man.  "Only  I  have 
to  place  a  marker  in  the  pages  to  tell  me  where 
I  leave  off,"  he  added  brightly;  "at  least,  some 
times  I  do.  But  I  think  it  is  very  entertaining 
when  Adam  awakened  and  found  Eve.  I  bet  he 
was  surprised !  It  must  have  made  God  sorry 
to  have  Eve  disobey  him.  I  don't  know  why  she 
did  it."  He  gazed  musingly  among  the  candy 
jars,  —  so  many  of  them  and  so  many  kinds  of 
candy;  at  the  lowest  count,  six!  "And  I  like 
apples  too !" 

"But  I  don't  think  that  I  would  touch  one," 
he  continued,  "if  I  thought  it  was  going  to  bring 
mortality  upon  the  offspring.  But  perhaps  I 
would!"  He  sighed.  "Anyway,  my  Aunt 
Abby  would  not  have  given  an  apple  to  my  Uncle 
James,  —  at  least  not  until  it  was  specked !" 

Mr.  Fuller  was  closing  up.  He  closed  up 
when  he  went  home  to  meals.  At  night  he 
dropped  the  bars  to  the  doors  and  windows,  but 


2o6    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

at  noon  he  simply  latched  the  door.  One  by 
one  the  loungers  drifted  out  to  go  to  dinner  — 
Mr.  Fuller  was  their  clock. 

"Will  you  walk  along  with  me,  Edmund?" 
said  the  fatherly  man. 

"I  am  not  going  home  to  dinner,  to-day," 
said  Edmund  offhand. 

"  Won't  you  take  dinner  with  me?" 

Edmund  shook  his  head. 

"My  little  Susan  was  a-baking  pumpkin  pies 
when  I  came  away  this  morning,"  said  the  store 
keeper. 

"Mr.  Fuller,"  said  Edmund  frankly,  "I  will 
tell  you  how  it  is.  I  was  a  naughty  boy  this 
morning.  I  cursed." 

"You  cursed!"  repeated  the  storekeeper  in 
sorrowful  reproof. 

"Yes,  I  did.  Aunt  Abby  said  that  I  was 
into  some  mischief,  and  I  wasn't.  I  told  her 
I  wasn't.  And  she  said,  'Then  what  are  you 
doing  with  the  hammer?'  and  I  said,  'Oh,  drat 
it!'" 

"That  was  wrong,  Edmund,  —  very  wrong." 
He  pressed  Edmund's  hand  fondly. 


FULLER'S   STORE  207 

"My  uncle  says  that  I  am  not  to  have  any  din 
ner  to-day." 

"Then  it  would  not  be  right  for  you  to  go  home 
to  dinner  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Fuller  thought 
fully.  He  went  back  to  the  store  door  and  set 
it  ajar.  "Edmund,  there're  some  crackers  and 
cheese  behind  the  counter,  and  if  you  feel  like 
nibbling  a  little,  help  yourself;  I  don't  call 
nibbling  eating." 

Edmund's  pride  would  have  kept  him  from 
taking  anything  that  he  did  not  pay  for,  even  if 
he  had  been  hungry.  But  he  was  not  hungry. 
His  breakfast  of  cold  pork,  with  a  lecture  from 
his  uncle,  had  not  agreed  with  him.  The  lecture 
left  a  lump  in  his  throat,  and  the  pork  a  lump  in 
his  stomach.  He  managed  to  swallow  the  lump 
in  his  throat,  and  it  settled  down  quite  familiarly 
with  the  lump  of  undigested  pork.  He  could 
still  feel  the  pair,  hot,  hard,  defiant,  but  quite 
quiet.  They  did  not  stir.  "  Oh,  I'm  not  hungry," 
he  answered  buoyantly;  "and,  anyhow,  I'd 
better  attend  to  an  appointment  I  have  with 
the  cobbler,  or  I  may  inconvenience  the  old 
chap!" 


208    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

Mr.  Fuller  started  down  Cross  Keys  Lane, 
and  then  turned  back. 

"You  are  sure  you  aren't  sick,  Edmund ?"  he 
asked  benignly.  "You  look  a  little  feverish 
and  kind  of  peaked." 

"I  feel  sick  in  my  stomick,  but  I  don't  feel 
sick  anywheres  else,"  said  Edmund  reassuringly, 
and,  inch  by  inch,  his  shapely  legs  disappeared 
along  the  cobbler's  stairway  just  as  Harland's 
legs  had  disappeared. 

But  Edmund  had  miscalculated  his  day;  it 
was  no  easy  matter  to  keep  track  of  the  days 
when  every  day  save  Sunday  was  a  holiday. 
The  cobbler  was  off  for  the  afternoon,  and  the 
big  boys  hired  his  loft  for  the  time.  They 
had  formed  a  club  called  the  Desperado  Gang, 
and  they  had  made  arrangements  to  meet  in  the 
loft  whenever  the  cobbler  was  taken  by  a  provi 
dential  cold,  or  was  tending  his  garden,  or  away 
on  errands  to  the  Landing.  The  meetinghouse 
sheds  offered  them  shelter  while  they  were 
forming  their  club.  In  fact,  the  club  had  been 
Edmund's  idea.  And  now  that  the  gang  was 
organized  and  housed,  his  mates  had  left  him  out! 


FULLER'S   STORE  209 

He  observed  that  Bond,  who  had  mounted  just 
ahead  of  him,  dealt  the  door  three  crisp  raps. 
Edmund  rapped  in  like  manner.  Little  George 
was  doorkeeper  and  opened  the  door  stealthily. 
Edmund  peered  into  the  room.  There  before 
him  in  life  and  blood  was  gathered  a  downright 
desperate-looking  company, — brow-beating  repro 
bates  seated  around  a  table.  Their  hats  were 
pulled  down  over  their  brows.  Mason  was  dealing 
cards.  He  whipped  out  each  card  with  a  charm 
that  would  have  incited  a  saint  to  be  a  sinner. 

"Hello,  Baby!"  exclaimed  Legs  Porter,  catch 
ing  sight  of  Edmund.  "It  is  you,  is  it?" 

Edmund  walked  in,  full-chested.  "I'm  no 
more  a  baby  than  you  are,  Porter,"  he  answered 
back  and  gave  the  unsuspecting  Legs  a  side 
shove  that  sent  him  sprawling.  He  seated  him 
self  in  Legs's  chair. 

Everybody  laughed. 

"Order!"  cried  Harland;  "or  the  police  will 
be  upon  us!" 

Every  one  was  as  still  as  the  grave. 

"Didn't  know  you,  Harland,"  remarked  Ed 
mund. 


210    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

Harland's  own  mother  would  not  have  known 
him.  His  hair  was  dragged  down  to  his  eyes. 
His  collar  was  turned  up.  He  slouched  in  his 
chair.  He  looked  the  very  cut-throat. 

"What  are  you  playing?"  inquired  Edmund. 

Cards  were  being  laid  down  and  taken  up  again 
with  impressive  violence.  Words  were  hissed  back 
and  forth.  Every  lad  watched  his  fellow  with  dark, 
suspicious  glances.  Every  man's  hand  was  against 
his  brother.  All  was  mystery  —  villainous,  in 
tense,  but  nothing  seemed  to  get  any  "  forrader." 

"Never  mind  what  we  are  playing,"  said 
Little  George  portentously.  He  felt  mightily 
pleased  that  he  had  been  included  in  the  gang, 
but  was  in  momentary  fear  of  the  parson  —  ten 
miles  away  in  Hebron  ! 

"We  are  gambling,"  spoke  up  Alphabet  Sher 
man. 

"Well,  where's  your  money?"  questioned  Ed 
mund.  He  knew  a  thing  or  two  about  gambling. 
He  had  watched  the  men  behind  the  blacksmith 
shop  gamble. 

"Bring  on  the  drinks,"  exclaimed  Mason  with 
a  flourish. 


FULLER'S   STORE  211 

"Give  me  my  chair,"  cried  Legs  who,  now  that 
he  was  on  his  feet,  was  a  demonstration  of  his 
nickname. 

"Then  I'll  have  the  table!"  cried  Edmund, 
who  would  not  be  downed.  Springing  to  the 
middle  of  the  age-blackened  board,  he  stood  aloft 
on  it.  Little  regard  was  paid  to  him ;  Windy 
Briggs  had  fetched  forth  the  bottle.  It  was  grim 
and  ugly. 

It  was  a  fit  bottle  for  such  a  gang.  Each  of 
the  boys  in  turn  lifted  it  to  his  lips  and  pretended 
to  swallow.  Tears  sprang  through  their  lashes, 
they  shut  their  eyes  so  tight.  Harland  held  his 
throat  with  his  hand  and  beat  his  chest  as  if  he 
was  on  fire. 

Edmund  stamped  upon  the  table  in  wild  ex 
citement.  "Drat!"  he  cried,  it  was  all  so  des 
perate  and  devilish. 

Captain  Kidd  who  houghed  the  hamstrings  of 
the  haughty,  who  stirred  eyeballs  instead  of  plums 
into  his  Christmas  pudding,  who  would  have 
thought  nothing  of  using  shin  bones  for  paling- 
pegs,  was  not  a  circumstance  to  the  meekest  of  the 
gang. 


212    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

"Here,  Baby,"  cried  Legs.  He  reached  behind 
him  to  the  bucket,  laid  hold  of  the  cocoanut 
dipper,  and  dishing  up  a  draught  of  water, 
handed  it  to  Edmund. 

With  one  fling,  Edmund  sent  the  water  into 
Legs's  face.  Everybody  cheered  him.  He  bran 
dished  the  dipper  airily. 

"Where're  your  wits,  Legs!"  cried  the  gang. 
"He's  too  rapid  for  you !" 

Edmund  was  transported  with  triumph  at 
appearing  the  man. 

"You  haven't  got  the  cork  out!"  he  shouted 
suddenly.  He  had  spied  the  truth.  "You've 
borrowed  the  bottle  from  the  captain's  nigger, 
and  you  are  afraid  to  open  it !  You've  promised 
to  give  it  back  again ;  —  that's  what  you've 
done!" 

"Shut  up,  you  Baby!"  cried  Little  George, 
red  as  if  to  burst. 

It  was  true  that  they  had  borrowed  the  bottle ; 
they  had  given  Sambo  ninepence  to  filch  it  from 
the  captain's  cellar  and  loan  it  to  them  for  the  day. 

"'Baby'  me  again,  and  I'll  'baby'  you!" 
cried  Edmund,  beside  himself. 


FULLER'S  STORE  213 

"Baby I"  retorted  Little  George,  and  held  the 
bottle  tauntingly  just  above  Edmund's  head. 

Edmund  sprang  into  the  air  to  snatch  it.  He 
was  quick,  but  for  once  Little  George  was  quicker. 
Edmund  sprang  again,  and  as  he  sprang,  he  aimed 
a  blow  at  the  bottle  with  his  dipper. 

There  was  a  crash  of  glass  —  a  headlong 
gush;  down  came  the  contents  of  the  bottle. 
Heavens  —  it  was  Barbadoes!  Down  it  came,  — 
a  quart  of  it,  —  a  fiery  baptism  over  Edmund's 
head,  over  his  shoulders,  down  his  spine.  It 
trickled  from  his  trousers;  it  ran  to  the  floor. 
Blinking,  he  stared  out  at  his  mates  from  under 
brows  that  dripped. 

He  stepped  from  the  table  to  a  chair  and  from 
the  chair  to  the  floor.  He  was  as  white  as  death. 
He  lifted  the  latch  and  walked  out.  No  one 
spoke  to  him;  no  one  had  the  sense  to  think  to 
save  him;  no  one  went  with  him;  he  was  a 
walking  delegate  from  Perdition;  he  would  set 
the  town  on  their  scent.  He  would  "squeal"  on 
them.  The  truth  would  out ;  the  Barbadoes  was 
out.  The  Barbadoes  was  on  parade !  The  gang 
was  appalled. 


2i4    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

Harland  alone  had  the  force  to  gather  up  the 
cards.  The  gang  would  have  left  them  and  the 
broken  bottle  to  tell  the  tale  after  Edmund  had 
told  it. 

Edmund  passed  Fuller's  store  more  dead  than 
alive.  He  reeked  of  Barbadoes.  He  came  to 
Mr.  Lathrop's  Tavern  —  in  his  blank  terror  not 
certain  where  he  was.  There  were  no  longer  any 
distinguishable  places  in  the  world;  he  made 
road  and  sidewalk  alike  by  his  presence.  He 
profaned  the  neighborhood  wherever  he  passed. 
He  left  wet  spots  whenever  he  stood.  His 
own  goal,  his  one  aim,  was  his  little  room  at 
Deacon  Stedman's.  It  came  to  him  dimly,  yet 
terrifyingly  and  surely,  that  his  bed  had  been 
changed  from  the  ground  floor  to  a  tiny  chamber 
over  the  kitchen.  He  would  have  to  pass  through 
the  kitchen.  He  would  have  to  leave  his  trail 
on  the  stairs. 

He  shied  through  the  judge's  gateway,  lest  he 
touch  it.  No  one  was  in  the  kitchen.  He  crept 
on  all  fours  up  the  stairs  —  to  keep  the  fumes  on 
a  low  level.  He  felt  hot  and  cold  and  horribly 
dizzy  when  he  came  to  a  standstill  in  his  room. 


FULLER'S   STORE  215 

In  the  close  air,  the  fumes  seemed  multiplying. 
He  supposed  that  he  would  smell  through  the 
remainder  of  his  days.  He  thought  of  the  next 
Sunday  when  he  would  sit  in  his  uncle's  pew, 
with  all  the  deacons  in  the  meetinghouse  holding 
their  noses.  The  thought  of  having  to  go  through 
life  with  himself  was  nauseous.  He  crawled  into 
bed  to  smother  the  smell.  He  dragged  the  cover 
let  over  him.  He  began  to  reek  with  sweat, 
and  the  sweat  reeked  of  Barbadoes.  Each  pore 
breathed  it.  When  he  lifted  the  sheet,  a  puff 
issued  forth  like  smoke  from  an  oven.  Suddenly 
the  lump  came  back  into  his  throat  and  brought 
the  pork  with  it.  A  convulsive  moment,  and  he 
was  rid  of  them,  but  in  his  weakness  and  wild 
nervousness,  he  hung  over  the  side  of  his  cot  as 
if  over  the  side  of  a  ship.  It  seemed  as  if  his 
stomach  would  never  give  over  its  paroxysms  of 
revolting.  He  burned  with  fever.  He  heard 
his  Aunt  Abby's  footfall  on  the  landing.  She 
came  to  the  door,  then  turned,  and  hastened 
down.  Immediately  came  his  uncle,  sniffing 
like  a  hound.  His  gray  face  was  drawn  with 
anxiety  and  wrath. 


2i6     A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,"  he  said  sternly, 
when  he  strode  to  the  bedside,  "you  have  been 
drinking!"  His  voice  was  doom. 

"That's  the  pork,"  whispered  Edmund,  after 
a  wandering  survey.  And  indeed  it  was  the 
truth;  the  poor  little  beggar  had  had  nothing 
else  in  the  only  cupboard  that  the  good  God  had 
given  him. 

"You  have  been  to  the  Landing!"  cried  his 
uncle. 

Relieved  that  his  uncle  did  not  demand  to 
know  where  he  had  been,  Edmund  returned 
his  glare  with  the  tranquil  countenance  of  a 
cherub.  His  brow  cooled.  Even  in  his  hour 
of  darkness,  when  fear  and  pride  beat  against 
him  like  a  blast,  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  let 
go  loyalty  and  shield  himself  at  the  expense  of 
his  mates. 

"You  have  been  frequenting  some  wretched 
hole,  some  disreputable,  back-street  gin  shop. 
No  place  short  of  the  most  indecent  den  would 
sell  drink  to  a  child  like  you  —  a  gentleman's 
son!" 

Edmund  gazed  at  him  wide-eyed. 


FULLER'S   STORE  217 

"You  are  intoxicated!"  cried  the  judge  in 
sudden  thunder. 

"Am  I?"  The  little  lad's  tone  was  edged 
with  unbelieving  dismay.  His  startled  eyes  were 
dark  with  terror. 

"Are  you?"  echoed  his  uncle  in  scorn.  "You 
are  a  dissolute,  lost  youth.  You  are  not  fit  for 
the  society  of  virtuous  companions,  do  you  know 
it?  Are  you?"  he  reiterated.  "Look  at  your 
self!" 

Edmund  obediently  pushed  back  the  coverlet 
and  gazed  at  his  rum-soaked  front. 

"I  am  not  talking  about  your  clothes;  I  am 
talking  about  you!"  cried  his  uncle  in  uncontrolled 
grief.  "You  are  a  disgrace  to  me  —  to  the  Sted- 
man  name  —  to  your  mother !" 

Edmund  had  not  thought  of  the  inner  disgrace ; 
he  had  not  thought  of  his  mother. 

"Oh!"  he  moaned,  as  if  suddenly  cut  to  the 
heart.  He  stared  at  his  uncle.  Deacon  Sted- 
man  turned  on  his  heel  —  he  had  gone  as  he 
came. 

Edmund  was  alone.  Dailey,  the  town  drunkard ; 
Jackson,  the  ne'er-do-well ;  loafers,  sots,  half-wits, 


218    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

imbeciles,  passed  in  pictured  procession  before 
his  mind.  And  he  was  one  of  these !  Was  he 
one  of  these,  —  a  disgrace  to  his  mother  !  —  he 
who  had  dreamed  to  make  a  man  of  himself  for  her 
sake?  Slow,  scalding  tears  crept  to  his  eyes. 
He  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  "  Mother, 
Mother/'  he  kept  crying,  —  "Mother,  Mother,  I 
am  not  a  lost  youth,  —  I  am  not  a  lost  youth  ! " 

But  kind  Nature,  Edmund's  only  nurse,  was 
near  with  Slumber  her  handmaid,  and  soon  he 
was  sleeping  deeply  —  carried  for  the  nonce  into 
one  of  the  many  mansions  prepared  even  on  earth 
for  little  children  and  for  them  who  bear  in  their 
breasts  the  hearts  of  innocents. 

When  Edmund  appeared  abroad  once  more, 
he  was  wan  and  thin  from  fasting  and  confinement. 
But  he  was  as  cheerful  as  ever.  He  had  been 
punished.  He  felt  that  his  uncle  had  been 
avenged.  More  than  that,  sun,  wind,  and  soap 
had  freed  his  wearables  from  all  suspicion  of 
spirits.  His  hair  alone  breathed  of  Barbadoes 
a  little,  a  very  little,  when  it  was  wetted.  As 
he  passed  Fuller's  store  on  his  way  to  see  the  river, 
the  door  of  the  cobbler's  lodge  was  opened,  and 


FULLER'S   STORE  219 

Legs,  as  awkward  on  his  pins  as  if  on  stilts,  hurried 
down  the  steps  and  overtook  him. 

"I  say,  Stedman,"  he  exclaimed,  and  gave 
Edmund  a  clap  on  the  back,  "  you're  the  right 
sort,  you  didn't  squeal  on  us;  and  we  have  made 
you  an  honorary  member  of  the  gang  !" 


XVI 

A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL 

I  WAS  two  and  a  half  years  old  when  I  came  with 
my  parents,  my  elder  sister,  and  baby  brother, 
to  live  in  the  old  Simon  Huntington  house  at  the 
end  of  the  Green.  The  windows  of  our  Blue 
Room,  which  was  never  occupied  because  it  was 
haunted,  looked  directly  across  the  Around-town 
Road  into  the  par  son 's  windows.  There  was 
only  the  road  between  our  houses,  but  there  were 
the  Cross  Keys  Lane,  the  great  butternut  tree 
on  the  Green,  and  the  New  London  turnpike 
between  our  gardens.  We  children  never  gath 
ered  the  butternuts.  I  cannot  remember  that 
any  one  ever  gathered  them,  although  they  fell 
as  free  as  showers  into  the  two-forked  road  and 
over  the  pale  long  grass.  The  parson's  presence 
stood  in  Sabbath-like  guard  over  everything 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL    221 

in  his  neighborhood.  But  the  boys'  feet  kept 
the  grass  cropped  on  the  far  end  of  the  Green 
which  was  beyond  the  ken  of  his  windows. 

The  Green  was  a  long-drawn-out  triangle, 
with  the  apex  under  the  parson's  nose,  and  the 
base  skirted  by  the  Cross  Keys  Tavern,  —  the 
jailer's  two  keys  hanging  crossed  on  a  tree  in 
front  of  his  door,  in  days  gone  by,  reminded  the 
heedless  of  his  calling  and  named  the  tavern,  — 
Fuller's  store,  the  Lathrop  house,  the  Academy, 
and  the  Union  Hotel.  But  all  of  these  buildings, 
together  with  the  sacred  meetinghouse,  the 
chapel,  the  whipping  post,  and  the  wayfarers 
at  the  triple  crossroads,  were  nothing  in  compari 
son  with  one  slat  in  the  parsonage  shutter. 

As  I  recall  the  parson,  he  was  as  tall  as  the 
meetinghouse  belfry,  and  ancient  past  all  possi 
bility  of  growing  more  aged.  Undoubtedly  there 
were  occasions  when  he  donned  a  hat  —  Ed 
mund,  when  he  grew  to  be  a  man,  recollected  a 
gray-white  beaver.  But  his  flowing  locks  so 
impressed  me  with  a  sense  of  his  venerableness, 
that  if  his  head  was  covered  I  took  no  account  of 
his  headgear.  Or  possibly  he  loomed  so  high 


222    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

above  me  that  I,  looking  up,  beheld  his  beaver 
foreshortened  and  was  not  aware  of  its  existence. 
I  can  see  him  to-day  as  plainly  as  if  two  decades 
past  were  yesterday.  He  affected  a  neckcloth 
after  the  fashion  of  the  previous  century,  —  a 
soft,  fleckless  cambric  muffler,  fine  as  cloud,  that 
mounted  in  indistinguishable  folds  from  his 
shoulders  to  his  chin.  Above  the  neckcloth 
protruded  stiffly  the  two  points  of  his  immaculate 
starched  collar.  He  never  turned  his  head  or 
bent  it  —  not  to  my  remembrance.  He  walked 
the  village  like  a  marble  man.  To  us  children, 
he  surpassed  the  seven  wonders  of  antiquity. 
No  one  of  us  knew  when,  where,  or  how,  and  no 
one  questioned,  and  yet  every  one  believed  that 
he  had  broken  his  neck,  and  that  the  surgeons 
had  fashioned  a  new  neck  for  him  out  of  pure 
gold,  and  had  amiably  stuck  his  head  to  the  top 
of  it,  and  soldered  his  body  to  the  bottom.  If 
Lot's  wife  had  been  overtaken  by  the  proverbial 
salt  on  a  trip  across  the  Green,  her  remains  would 
have  excited  little  comment.  Salt  is  cheap. 
But  our  parson  with  his  neck  of  virgin  ore,  was 
an  offering  to  attract  robbers.  The  first  time 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL    223 

that  I  promenaded  to  our  front  gate,  after  my 
arrival  in  Norwich  Town,  a  bevy  of  school  chil 
dren  was  waiting  to  tell  me  about  the  golden 
neck.  They  showed  off  the  parson  as  the  town 
marvel.  We  tiptoed  behind  him,  whispering 
busily  and  conferring  endlessly.  If  he  should 
turn  his  head  however  so  little,  —  the  children 
told  me,  —  his  neck  would  crack,  and  his  head 
topple  down !  What  an  awful  responsibility  he 
was! 

Shivering  and  alone  in  the  Blue  Room,  I  peered 
out  like  a  young  ghost ;  I  was  held  a  prisoner  to 
the  pane  by  the  fascination  of  catching  a  glimpse 
of  the  parson  with  the  golden  neck.  But  I 
whisked  away  as  quick  as  s'cat!  when  I  saw  him 
opening  his  door !  If  he  should  espy  me,  if  he 
should  bow  to  me,  his  neck  would  break,  and  I 
would  have  his  head,  his  golden  neck,  and  him 
self  —  a  tragedy  in  three  parts  —  on  my  hands. 
The  thought  of  having  to  present  myself  at  the 
parsonage  door,  bearing  the  preacher's  august 
head  on  a  charger,  was  too  appalling  to  dwell 
upon,  and  the  event  too  possible  to  be  risked. 

There  came  a  time  when  there  was  talk  that 


224    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

the  parson  was  dead ;  but  could  a  gold  neck  die  ? 
Of  course  not!  Whoever  heard  of  such  a  thing. 
My  little  brother,  panting  from  happy  play, 
was  led  by  an  old  crone  into  the  darkened  par 
sonage  and  his  dimpled  hand  was  laid  on  the  cold 
brow  of  the  parson  who  had  lain  three  days  in 
his  shroud.  My  brother  shuddered  and  then 
shrieked.  Never  afterwards  till  he  was  a  grown 
man  would  he  go  into  the  dusk  alone.  I  could 
set  my  orange  inside  the  Blue  Room  and,  even 
at  high  noon,  he  would  not  dare  to  open  the  door 
to  pluck  it  forth.  He  was  in  terror  of  the  touch 
of  that  dead  brow.  But  he  was  only  a  baby, 
he  was  only  four  years  old ;  and  his  gentle  mother 
had  shielded  him  from  frights  and  taught  him  that 
the  dark  held  no  dismay. 

But  whether  the  parson  and  his  neck  were 
dead  or  not,  none  of  us  ever  picked  up  the  butter 
nuts.  Good  Mr.  Weitzel,  who  came  to  the  par 
sonage  after  the  parson's  departure,  heard  my 
brother's  cart  wheel  creak  as  we  trudged  along 
under  his  study  windows,  and,  fetching  an  oil 
can,  bowed  down  on  all  fours  for  our  help  —  our 
cart  was  so  tiny  and  he  so  tall.  He  inspected 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL     225 

the  axle-tree  so  gravely,  he  dropped  the  oil  so 
painstakingly,  that  we  ourselves  were  impressed. 
Moreover,  he  told  us,  while  we  looked  on  criti 
cally,  how  a  trifle  of  oil  had  made  many  a  cart 
wheel  run  easily. 

But  Mr.  Weitzel  was  not  the  parson.  If  the 
parson  had  stooped,  he  would  have  lost  his  head. 

The  parson  was  the  Visiting  Committee  of  the 
District.  There  may  have  been  other  worthies 
on  the  committee,  but  throughout  his  term  in 
office,  no  one  presumed  to  officiate.  The  Visit 
ing  Committee,  with  his  gold  neck  shrouded  in 
cambric,  appeared  in  the  schoolroom  doorway 
about  once  in  every  so  often.  Instantly  the  idle 
drone  of  voices  stopped.  The  girls  began  to 
quake,  and  the  older  boys  to  look  defiant.  When 
I  was  a  child,  I  was  not  allowed  to  study,  but  by 
the  time  that  my  brother  was  nearing  four,  I 
fell  into  the  way  of  leading  him  to  school,  —  it  was 
the  only  means  of  getting  him  past  the  minnows 
in  the  brook.  He  was  a  handsome,  merry  child, 
too  mischievous  to  be  controlled,  and  I  loved 
him.  Since  I  was  not  to  study,  I  sat  on  the 
platform  and  as  monitor  heard  lessons.  I  can 


226    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

see  now  that  I  must  have  been  a  day  of  rest  and 
gladness  to  our  schoolmistress  who,  leaving  me 
in  absolute  charge,  made  trips  home,  or  gossiped 
with  a  neighbor,  or  sewed. 

When  the  parson  entered  the  schoolroom,  the 
fall  of  a  pin  resounded  tumultuously.  Without 
turning  his  head  to  right  or  left,  or  glancing  up, 
or  more  naturally  down,  he  took  our  school 
mistress's  chair  which  she  vacated  for  him. 

"Madame,  your  order  is  tolerable,"  he  an 
nounced  after  meditating  favorably  on  the  death 
like  silence.  "You  appear  to  appreciate  the  value 
of  discipline.  I  trust  you  do  as  well  by  the 
intellectual  development  of  the  youth  entrusted 
to  you  as  you  do  by  their  deportment." 

The  most  phlegmatic  of  us  shared  our  teacher's 
increasing  agitation. 

He  turned  to  the  schoolroom,  readjusting  his 
body  to  the  angle.  "If  seven  crows  sat  upon  a 
tree,  and  I  should  shoot  three,  how  many  of  the 
crows  would  remain?"  he  asked  piercingly. 

Our  wits  were  stricken.  Not  a  countenance 
disclosed  the  intelligence  of  a  mole.  Our  teacher 
looked  at  me  imploringly. 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL    227 

My  brother,  in  the  lovely  words  of  Kerrick, 
"heaved  up  his  either  hand." 

"Buddie,  you  may  answer,"  said  the  Visiting 
Committee.  An  exultant  glint  lifted  his  lids. 

"Four,  Sir,"  said  my  brother. 

"Wrong!"  cried  the  Committee  in  triumph. 

We  looked  aghast.  We  counted  it  over  on  our 
fingers.  Our  brains  were  useless. 

The  Reverend  Committee  stated  the  problem 
over  again. 

My  brother,  scarlet  and  confounded,  was  still 
on  his  feet.  He  was  a  sturdy,  fearless  child  with 
a  will  of  his  own,  and  a  mind  not  given  to  surren 
dering  unless  convinced  of  an  error. 

"Did  you  say  you  shot  thwee,  Sir?"  he 
lisped. 

"I  did." 

"And  there  were  seven,  Sir?" 

"Correct." 

"Then  there  would  be  four  left,"  said  my 
brother. 

"None  would  be  left.  If  I  should  shoot  three, 
the  rest  would  fly  away." 

The  Reverend  Committee  had  visited  the  school. 


228    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

The  Committee  descended  the  platform  and 
walked  out. 

"I'd  kill  him  if  I  could,"  remarked  my  brother 
fiercely  on  the  way  home. 

All  the  little  boys  burned  to  kill  the  parson. 
And  the  grown  boys,  when  they  saw  him  coming, 
passed  by  on  the  other  side  —  his  grandchildren 
among  them.  We  were  Priests  and  Levites 
together  —  there  was  not  a  Samaritan  around  the 
Green. 

The  parson  had  no  eyes  —  at  least  none  that 
I  remember.  Two  pools  of  lapis  lazuli  unlighted 
as  a  moonless  sky  in  which  the  last  star  dies,  lay 
under  the  shadow  of  his  shaggy  brows  and  beet 
ling  lids.  His  countenance  was  ruddy  but  it 
did  not  warm.  He  was  Saint  Nicholas  without 
the  heart  of  the  Saint.  If  he  had  carried  a  pack, 
it  would  have  been  loaded  with  treatises  on 
Predestination,  Regeneration,  and  Original  Sin. 
He  was  the  last  oak  in  the  forest  of  Puritanism ; 
he  stood  without  verdure.  No  bird  built  its 
nest  in  his  branches.  He  carried  a  cane,  and  the 
cane  wras  like  unto  himself  —  it  had  a  golden 
neck. 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL    229 

The  parson's  breath  was  Anathema  Maran- 
atha  to  a  stocking-hung  hearth.  He  set  a  ban 
on  Popish  festivals.  Christmas  in  Norwich  Town 
was  barely  observed.  Raisins,  candy,  and  an 
orange  were  the  orthodox  gifts.  We  would 
sooner  have  desecrated  the  Sabbath  than  have 
celebrated  Easter,  and  we  were  horribly  strict 
in  our  observance  of  the  Sabbath.  The  first 
person  in  Norwich  Town  who  dared  to  send 
Easter  greetings  promiscuously  and  undisguised 
was  Mrs.  White  from  Cleveland,  who  came  upon 
us  Christians  much  as  the  Pope  might  have  come 
upon  the  Pilgrims.  I  recall  to  this  day  the  card 
she  sent  across  the  street  to  me  on  Easter  morning, 
and  Sunday  too  !  —  think  of  it !  It  was  a  pic 
ture  of  a  fresh-cheeked  Miss  in  a  crimson  frock, 
skipping  with  a  rope  of  Jacqueminot  roses  done 
against  a  background  of  burnished  gold.  I  was 
crazed  with  joy.  I  could  not  contain  my  ecstasy ; 
I  ran  about  the  house,  hugging  the  card  and  kiss 
ing  it,  and  extending  it  toward  every  one  I  met, 
only  to  snatch  it  back  as  impetuously  and  clasp 
it  fast,  and  cry,  "It's  mine,  it's  mine!"  My 
mother  who  was  Kentish,  and  as  much  out  of  her 


23o    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

setting  in  New  England  as  a  chime  in  a  sepulchre, 
was  adorable  to  us  little  ones.  In  our  lack  of 
amusements,  she  used  to  cut  out  paper  dolls, 
houses,  trees,  and  curious  creatures  that  would 
have  staggered  Adam  to  name.  But  the  damsels 
that  she  created  were  from  rude  wrapping  paper. 
At  the  sight  of  Mrs.  White's  card,  I  was  utterly 
without  conscience.  I  flaunted  my  gay  Pari- 
sienne  in  my  mother's  face ;  and  my  mother,  more 
happy  in  my  happiness  than  I  myself,  slipped 
down  upon  her  loving  knees  to  kiss  me  and  my 
card.  Sunday  in  Norwich  Town  was  a  day  of 
absolute  serenity  in  spite  of  its  gloom.  With 
my  mother  in  the  house,  the  day  was  not  unlovely. 
Even  babes  were  taught  to  commune  with  their 
own  hearts  and  be  still.  No  haste,  no  stir,  no 
travel;  not  a  sound  but  church  bells  calling; 
no  fret,  no  taking  thought  for  any  morrow  save 
Eternity.  And  before  the  day's  close,  we  learned 
a  chapter  from  the  prophets.  But  what  the  Sab 
bath  was  two  generations  earlier  than  my  day, 
and  with  no  mother  in  the  house,  it  is  easier  for 
me  to  imagine  than  for  you. 
When  Edmund  was  in  pinafores  he  ran 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL    231 

pellmell  when  he  saw  the  preacher  coming,  just  as 
I  ran  when  I  saw  him.  Edmund  too  was  in  alarm 
for  the  parson's  head,  although  the  parson  and 
his  neck  were  at  that  date  in  the  heydey  of  their 
strength.  By  the  time  that  Edmund  was  ten 
years  old,  he  crossed  to  the  north  side  of  the  Green 
if  the  parson  appeared  upon  the  south  side.  A 
year  or  two  later,  the  "gang"  cut  for  themselves 
hickory  staves  after  the  fashion  shown  them  in 
their  parson's.  They  made  themselves  high 
pasteboard  collars  and  swathed  their  throats  in 
handkerchiefs.  They  resurrected  white  beavers 
in  divers  attics,  and  when  the  parson  left  home 
on  a  Saturday  forenoon  for  the  railway  station, 
a  bodyguard  of  six  escorted  him.  Childhood's 
bewilderment  had  given  place  to  vague  aversion, 
and  vague  aversion  to  intelligent  revolt. 

The  clergyman  did  not  observe  them;  he  was 
thinking  of  the  sermon  which  he  was  to  preach 
in  Lebanon  in  exchange  with  his  brother  of  the 
cloth.  When  he  returned  Monday  noonday,  the 
same  stern- visaged,  undemonstrative  group  was 
waiting  for  him  at  the  station.  He  paced  the 
platform,  they  paced  the  platform ;  he  took  to 


232    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

the  sidewalk,  they  took  to  the  sidewalk.  "Their 
garb  is  outrageous !"  he  said  techily  to  himself, 
but  their  garb  was  precisely  like  his  own.  "Those 
youths  should  be  locked  up;  they  should  be 
flogged!"  he  said  again.  But  why  locked  up? 
They  were  picking  their  way  needfully,  follow 
ing  exactly  in  his  footsteps.  When  he  reached 
the  bridge  across  the  Yantic,  he  was  in  a  white 
heat  of  passion.-  He  turned  on  them.  But 
the  mortification  of  it!  They  all  turned.  In 
stead  of  facing  six  pairs  of  mischievous  young 
eyes,  he  found  himself  fronting  six  incommuni 
cable  backs !  He  strode  on,  stabbing  and  thrash 
ing  the  air  with  his  cane,  unthinking  that  just  in 
his  rear,  six  hickory  staves  were  curvetting  and 
plunging  as  if  possessed. 

When  he  preached  to  his  flock  the  next  Lord's 
Day,  I  do  not  doubt  that  it  was  on  the  wicked 
ness  of  dissolute  youth.  He  certainly  complained 
to  Edmund's  guardian ;  he  alluded  to  the  ultimate 
end  awaiting  a  sad  and  wild  career;  but  he  re 
frained  from  giving  details. 

"The  parson  did  not  dare  to  say  a  word  to  my 
father  about  me/'  outspoke  Asa  Wilcox,  when 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL    233 

the  boys  held  a  conference  meeting  of  their  own 
behind  the  meetinghouse.  "My  father  would 
have  brought  him  to  the  point ;  my  father  would 
have  said,  'See  here,  now,  what  has  the  boy 
done?  Put  it  down  in  black  and  white,  and  I'll 
take  it  out  of  his  hide  for  you ! ' ' 

"He  did  not  dare  to  come  to  my  father,"  harped 
Little  George. 

"What  shall  we  do  next?"  cried  Edmund.  It 
made  him  uncomfortable  to  have  his  guardian's 
allegiance  to  him  questioned. 

"We  can  stop  up  the  ditch,"  said  Legs.  Legs's 
arms  were  nearly  as  long  as  his  pins;  he  was  as 
good  as  a  pitchfork  at  shoving  sods  under  the 
skid. 

"We  always  do  that  anyway,  when  it's  cold 
enough,"  remarked  Ed  Harland. 

Stuffing  the  Lathrop  ditch  with  sods  on  the 
first  severe  Saturday  afternoon  was  an  effectual 
way  of  getting  the  best  of  the  God-fearing  deacon, 
whose  precept  and  practice  set  dead  against 
laboring  on  the  Sabbath. 

"Let's  tie  a  string  to  the  meetinghouse  bell- 
clapper  and  hide  in  the  rocks,  and  at  midnight 


234    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

we'll  ring  the  bell  like  Scotland Va-burning !" 
suggested  Windy. 

"Then  I'll  do  the  ringing/'  put  in  Edmund 
promptly.  "I've  been  thrashed  three  times 
for  ringing  the  bell,  and  I've  never  done  it 
yet!" 

"Let's  paste  verses  upon  the  signposts  around 
the  Green  Saturday  night;  then  we'll  have  the 
best  of  the  parson  —  he'll  have  to  face  them  all 
day  Sunday." 

"We've  done  that  before,"  commented  Harland 
with  a  sniff.  "If  we  are  going  to  do  anything, 
let's  have  something  new ;  and  bear  in  mind  that 
we  aren't  children !" 

Everybody  sighed  and  sat  in  a  brown  study. 
There  was  nothing  going  on  —  no  mirth,  no  fun, 
no  recreation ;  no  normal  outlet  for  the  natural 
activities  of  a  boy. 

"Suppose  we  ask  Captain  Ben  to  take  us  with 
him  when  he  goes  to  haul  wood?"  proposed 
Edmund. 

"He'll  expect  us  to  help  him,"  returned  Harland 
laconically. 

"Harland,   you   down   everything   that  every 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL     235 

one  suggests,"  cried  the  gang.  "What  do  you 
say  to  do?" 

Harland  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then  they 
all  sighed  again.  Life  was  truly  dull. 

"Let's  go  to  the  Dance  Hall  in  the  Strand/' 
spoke  up  Stevens.  "I  know  the  fellow  that  runs 
it,  and  he  says  the  girls  are  stars." 

"I've  seen  the  girls,"  returned  Edmund,  loy 
ally  contemptuous  although  ignorant;  "they  are 
not  half  as  handsome  as  Margaretta  Huntington 
and  Cynthia  Backus." 

"I  would  not  ring  in  Retta  Huntington,  if  I 
were  you,  Stedman,"  said  Harland. 

Edmund  had  backed  the  sylph  Margaretta 
straight  into  an  airhole  in  the  ditch,  the  winter 
earlier,  when  his  head  was  turned  with  skating 
with  her.  Miss  Retta  was  furious.  She  disdained 
the  Around-Town  youths,  and  in  her  hauteur 
and  beauty  queened  over  even  the  bloods  at  the 
Landing.  To  be  caught  abroad  with  a  little  lad 
like  Edmund  was  a  blow  to  her  pride.  The  most 
that  he  could  do,  when  he  jumped  into  the  hole 
to  pull  her  out,  was  to  clamber  forth  again,  since 
she  was  twice  his  size ;  while  the  fair  one,  too 


236    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

exasperated  and  mortified  to  save  herself,  glared 
at  him  from  her  icy  pool  —  circled  by  petticoats 
floating  and  freezing  on  the  wave.  And  when 
she  did  climb  out,  she  flew  clinking  homeward, 
regardless  of  her  escort.  Unluckily  a  heartless 
wag,  to  whom  Miss  Retta  had  given  the  mitten 
on  an  earlier  occasion,  descried  her  flying  over  the 
fields  with  Edmund  in  pursuit.  Soon  the  whole 
of  Fuller's  store  was  laughing.  Edmund  never 
again  spoke  to  Miss  Retta.  He  did  not  dare ;  no, 
not  after  he  was  a  Wall  Street  broker  and  was  no 
more  in  fear  of  bears  and  bulls  than  you  and  I 
are  of  ladybirds.  Margaretta  was  the  nunlike 
Sara's  sister ;  she  was  sister  also  to  Webster 
Perit  —  children  of  Captain  Ben. 

"I'm  going  to  the  Dance  Hall,"  spoke  up 
Stevens  with  a  yawn  and  a  stretch. 

"So  am  I,"  joined  in  Alphabet.  "Come 
along,  Steddy!" 

"I  have  an  engagement." 

"I  know  your  engagement,"  interrupted  Legs. 
"You  are  all  ready  to  sneak  off  now !"  He  poked 
Edmund  in  the  ribs. 

"Out  with  your   tome;  where   is  it?"   cried 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL    237 

Windy,  but  Stevens  had  the  bookworm  by  the 
collar  and  shook  him  like  a  stocking. 

"Quit!"  cried  Edmund  good-naturedly  and 
hugged  his  coat-front. 

Stevens  set  him  down.  "What  is  your  book?" 
he  asked  with  a  drawl. 

"Keats." 

"Never  heard  of  them." 

"Just  wait  and  I'll  read  you  a  page." 

The  gang  sat  down,  sheltered  and  warm  under 
the  sheds  that  gathered  the  sunlight  as  if  in  a 
sheepfold. 

Edmund  read : 

"In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity ; 
The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them, 
Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

"In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 


238    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 

About  the  frozen  time. 

"Ah,  would  'twere  so  with  many 

A  gentle  girl  and  boy ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writh'd  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 

Was  never  said  in  rhyme." 

Edmund  had  forgotten  himself  altogether. 
He  might  have  been  sitting  on  his  mother's  knee, 
his  eyes  so  welled  with  light. 

Beyond  the  belfry,  the  snow-burdened  elms 
moved  like  ships  in  the  sea. 

"I  like  it,"  said  Stevens,  weighing  his  words, 
"only  it  makes  me  feel  blue.  It  makes  me  feel 
like  committing  suicide.  That's  the  way  with 
poetry.  If  it's  poor,  it's  too  poor  to  read;  and 
if  it's  good,  it's  too  good.  Cussing  and  gambling, 
and  going  to  the  Devil  relieve  a  man;  they're 
like  pulling  the  bung  out  of  a  cask  when  the 
wine  is  working,  but  reading  poetry  is  like  ram- 


A  PARSON  OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL    239 

ming  the  bung  in,  when  it's  starting  to  pop  al 
ready.  I'd  go  to  the  bad;  I'd  do  something 
extreme,  if  I  read  poetry,  —  I'd  get  so  cock-full 
of  feelings.  I'd  like  to  go  to  the  bad,"  he  added, 
"or  to  war,  or  to  something,  —  anything  that's 
alive !  I'm  sick  of  picking  up  stones  in  durned 
old  never-ending  huckleberry  pastures,  and  lis 
tening  to  the  parson." 

"That's  the  way  that  poetry  makes  you  feel!" 
cried  Edmund.  "I'll  read  you  something  else, 
Stevens  —  wait !" 

"Bright  Star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art! 
Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 
Like  Nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite. 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new,  soft-fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors  — 
No,  yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  forever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  forever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever  —  or  else  swoon  to  death." 


240    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"Oh,  Lord!"  ejaculated  Stevens.  He  smiled 
a  wan  smile  and  let  his  head  slide  down  on  Ed 
mund's  shoulder.  He  was  subjugated  by  his 
sensations.  "I'm  going  to  the  dance  hall/'  he 
cried,  starting  up.  "I'm  fizz-full  up  to  my  eyes, 
S teddy,  and  the  bung  will  pop,  if  I  don't  get  to 
moving !  Off  I  am  !" 

And  off  he  was,  striding  down  the  turnpike 
like  an  outlaw.  And  only  a  few  years  later, 
while  picking  up  the  stones  in  the  Reverend 
Wilcox's  sheep  pasture  as  I  have  already  told 
you,  he  suddenly  straightened  and,  taking  one 
deep  free  breath  of  the  boundless  dawn,  was  off ; 
and  lost  to  kith  and  friend  till  that  October  day 
when,  literally  shot  to  pieces,  he  dropped  beside 
John  Brown  at  Harper's  Ferry. 


XVII 

THE  GILDED  CAGE 

THUS  it  was  that  the  years  passed,  and  that 
Edmund's  brook  sped  to  the  river,  bearing  away  his 
fair  childhood  on  its  white  shoulders. 

When  the  first  frost  nipped  the  noses  of  the 
hazelnuts,  he  no  longer  arose  betimes  and, 
standing  in  the  roadway  in  front  of  the  Sigourney 
house,  engaged  in  a  fisticuff  fight  with  prospective 
followers.  No,  he  tumbled  the  toddlers  into  a 
barrow,  and  with  the  older  children  flocking  as  if 
at  the  heels  of  a  second  Piper  of  Hamelin,  he 
mounted  the  hill,  all  gaiety  and  gusto,  to  discover 
to  them  his  long-secret  find,  —  a  patch  of  bushes 
hidden  by  overgrown  sumacs  in  a  field  to  the 
south  of  Farmer  Yerrington's  pasture  patch  on 
the  Canterbury  turnpike. 

Canterbury  Turnpike  —  dear  name  !    Time  be- 


242    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

shrew  them  that  rechristen  thee  Elm  Avenue,  or 
Roosevelt  Parade! 

Edmund  did  not  talk  so  much  as  when  a  child. 
He  did  not  hand  out  family  facts,  and,  led  on  by 
the  curious  and  the  idle,  discourse  upon  matri 
monial  and  kindred  subjects.  The  Stedman 
skeleton  stayed  where  it  belonged,  and  no  doubt 
felt  ennuied  enough,  after  its  seven  fat  years  of 
trotting  abroad  with  Edmund  and  being  intro 
duced  by  him  into  the  genial  society  of  Fuller's 
store. 

In  and  out  of  his  uncle's  house,  Edmund  came 
and  went  as  silent  as  the  skeleton  itself.  The 
exacting  and  hot-tempered  old  Puritan  did  not 
understand  his  nephew,  and  his  nephew  did  not 
understand  him.  The  birch,  the  spiritual  go- 
between,  did  its  best,  but  it  gave  out  of  neces 
sity.  It  is  extinct  along  the  Stedman  byroads. 

In  more  ways  than  the  one,  Edmund  felt  sorely 
his  stultifying  environment.  He  was  as  blithe 
as  a  bird,  but  he  was  restless  for  sun  and  sky. 
It  was  his  impulse  to  sing. 

He  would  have  been  content  to  bide  in  the 
cage,  if  his  uncle  would  have  let  the  door  stay 


THE   GILDED   CAGE  243 

open.  But  the  zealous  deacon  must  have  the 
door  shut  and  fastened,  and  whenever  the  little 
prisoner  fluttered  his  wings,  the  keeper  stowed 
the  cage  in  the  dark. 

Boylike,  Edmund  accounted  that  his  keep  and 
lodging  cost  his  guardian  little ;  he  was  too  agile- 
witted  not  to  foot  up  debit  and  credit  columns  for 
himself.  During  many  an  interminable  evening, 
when  he  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  spirit-lamp 
copying  documents  for  his  uncle  who,  whether 
as  Town  Clerk  or  as  Judge,  had  endless  papers 
to  be  recorded,  his  eyes  lifted  to  the  judge's  face 
and  fixed  upon  the  judge's  eyes.  Did  his  guar 
dian  treat  him  and  Charlie  justly?  The  yearly 
stipend  which  he  supposed  was  his  own  and 
Charlie's  was  not  spent  upon  them ;  was  it 
stored  for  them?  By  being  very  careful  of  his 
clothes,  would  he  one  day  profit  by  his  thrift, 
and  be  enabled  to  take  Charlie  and  make  a  start 
in  business  near  his  mother?  Unhappy  ques 
tionings  troubled  him.  His  pinions  were  worn 
with  beating  against  bars.  But  no  answering 
light  softened  the  steel-gray  eye  of  the  staunch 
patriarch.  No  message  save  of  business  abstrac- 


244    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

tion  met  the  frank  gaze  of  the  young  copyist. 
A  look  of  sufferance  passed  over  Edmund's  brow, 
his  lip  so  instant  in  smiles  drooped  waywardly 
as  hour  after  hour  sifted  by,  and  his  fine,  nervous 
handwriting  flowed  behind  his  pen,  and  no  inti 
mate  word  was  spoken  to  make  the  silence  com 
panionable  or  to  cheer  the  monotony.  When 
he  dropped  into  Fuller's  store,  it  was  with  a 
reckless  laugh. 

To  tell  the  truth,  he  kept  Fuller's  store  in  a 
twitter  with  his  spirits  and  amusing  verses,  — • 
verses  marked  by  a  joyous  truthfulness  that  set 
the  sedate  and  suspicious  gentry  on  a  cushion  of 
pins  and  needles.  He  was  mirth  itself;  even 
old  Chicko,  who  was  supposed  to  be  as  blind  as 
a  bat  and  as  deaf  as  an  adder,  laughed  when 
Edmund  laughed.  His  verses  were  crude  and 
unpremeditated,  but  their  beat  was  as  sure  as 
the  pulsing  of  Tom  the  Fiddler's  viol  string.  He 
dashed  off  a  taking  couplet  in  Lydia  Lovejoy's 
autograph  album,  and  soon  all  the  girls  in  the 
village  were  mad  to  buy  autograph  albums  and 
have  Edmund  inscribe  them.  Lithe,  debonair, 
and  ready-hearted,  incredibly  shy  and  incredibly 


THE   GILDED    CAGE  245 

daring,  he  was  welcomed  by  a  call  of  "  Hello, 
Steddy,  old  boy!"  or  " Hello,  E.  C.!"  wherever 
he  appeared.  Everybody  was  glad  to  see  him 
coming,  everybody  except  the  aforesaid  and  over- 
pious  gentry  who  were  with  him  always.  They, 
good  souls  and  wary,  prayed  with  one  eye  open 
when  Edmund  was  in  the  sanctuary.  Since  the 
Sabbath  morning  when  he  accidentally  let  his 
Keats  fall  over  the  gallery  rail,  they  felt  that  he 
was  no  respecter  of  Perkins. 

"Land!  Master  Stedman,  ride  Meg  around  the 
Green  if  you  like  !"  said  the  stable  keeper  jocosely 
on  a  day  when  Edmund  hung  about  the  skittish 
roan  as  if  he  longed  to  mount  her.  "You  can 
pay  me  when  you  come  into  your  property." 

Butcher  and  baker  and  candlestick  maker 
offered  to  trust  Edmund,  merely  for  the  mirth 
of  it.  He  was  so  proud  and  so  poor  and  so  ridicu 
lously  serious  in  recording  his  obligations. 

Deacon  Stedman  laughed  grimly  when  he 
learned  that  Dick  Staples,  the  livery  keeper,  was 
trusting  his  nephew.  "You'll  never  get  a  cent 
from  the  boy,  I  warn  you!"  he  exclaimed  in 
indignation. 


246    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"Then  the  boy  will  never  get  a  cent!"  replied 
the  stableman  pointedly.  "You  can't  fool  old 
Dick  on  a  lad  or  on  a  hoss.  If  Master  Edmund 
comes  into  his  own,  he'll  pay  me  gold  for  silver !" 

And  with  the  first  money  that  Edmund  pos 
sessed,  he  was  back  in  Norwich  paying  petty  bills 
which  all  save  he  had  forgotten.  He  was  never 
done  paying  imaginary  debts.  Whoever  knew 
him,  knows  that  throughout  his  life  he  went  up 
and  down  the  world  as  if  he  were  his  brother's 
debtor.  He  journeyed  three  hundred  miles  by 
horseback  and  stage  in  early  manhood,  to  thank 
an  aging  lady  who  in  her  far  girlhood  had  given 
him  his  first  copy  of  Tennyson. 

A  half-day  in  the  judge's  library  and  a  lecture 
from  the  old  gentleman  had  a  like  effect  on  Ed 
mund.  He  lit  out  to  Fuller's  store,  or  to  the 
cobbler's,  in  a  mood  to  feel  that  being  good  did 
not  help,  and  being  bad  did  not  matter.  Only 
when  darkness  came  upon  the  house,  when  the 
angel  of  sickness  stayed  not  his  sword  for  the 
blood  already  spilled  on  the  lintel,  did  Edmund 
forget  constraint.  He  seemed  to  understand 
grief  —  from  some  unremembered  aforetime.  He 


THE   GILDED   CAGE  247 

stood  like  a  star  in  the  gloom.  One  who  had  been 
Mary's  playmate  came  to  him  to  die  on  his  shoul 
der;  he  seemed  to  understand  so  much  better 
than  her  elders  what  that  strange  last  journey 
meant. 

He  was  himself  also  whenever  he  was  out  of 
doors  for  any  length  of  time,  and  alone.  The 
hardening  influence  of  uncongenial  environment 
—  the  chill  of  feeling  that  he  was  an  object 
of  disapprobation  —  melted.  He  straightened 
gradually,  as  you  have  seen  a  savin  straighten 
when  its  head  is  released  from  a  snowdrift.  His 
heart  burst  into  bloom  at  the  sight  of  the  spring. 
He  sang  at  the  sound  of  the  ripples  in  the  river. 
He  thought  that  it  was  the  reach  and  spread  of 
the  elms  that  lifted  something  within  him,  but  it 
was  something  within  him  that  lifted  him  above 
the  treetops.  He  traced  every  stream  to  its 
source.  He  mooned  along  the  Yantic  River,  not 
knowing  what  he  sought,  or  what  he  found. 

He  spied  the  water  lily  planting  her  own  garden ; 
he  saw  her  coil  the  stem  of  her  full-bloom  flowers 
into  tightening  spirals,  and  draw  each  ripening 
seed  pod  down  into  the  ooze.  He  contemplated 


248    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

the  father  bass  guarding  the  helpless  fry.  He 
learned  to  know  the  mother  bass,  and  just  when 
and  where  to  find  her  dozing.  He  brought  home 
orchises,  Arethusa,  Indian's  Moccasin,  and  coral 
root,  —  "airbs",  the  country  folk  called  them,  - 
and  made  bouquets  for  Annie  and  for  Tom's 
wife,  for  Tom  was  married  long  ago.  He  had 
"espoused"  Mary  Hyde,  just  as  Edmund  had 
"perdicted";  and  Tom  and  Mary  had  had  a 
little  son,  Lewis;  but  Lewis  died.  Edmund 
helped  the  languishing  grub  to  a  comfortable 
lodgment  on  the  trunk  of  the  Norway  spruce  and 
stood  solicitously  guardful  while  its  sallow  coat 
grew  translucent,  and,  splitting  noiselessly,  set 
free  the  young  cicada.  And  then  he  stood  guard 
over  the  cicada  until  the  dewlike  beads  at  its 
thighs  unfolded  into  wings  as  blue  and  frail  as 
smoke  from  an  autumn  fire,  and  the  tender 
body  and  wonder-wandering  eyes  gathered  tex 
ture  from  the  sunlight  and  breeze. 

He  tramped  to  the  field  where  the  chieftain 
Mian  torn  ono  lost  his  life.  He  learned  all  the 
legends.  Nothing  escaped  him. 

His   uncle   directed  his   studies   but   did   not 


THE   GILDED   CAGE  249 

control  them.  His  mother  gave  him  a  volume  of 
Coleridge  and  added  a  copy  of  Byron.  Eliza 
beth  was  carried  away  with  Byron  and,  like  a 
child,  must  send  it  at  once  to  her  Edmund,  - 
or  more  likely,  keen-sighted  herself  and  always 
level-headed,  she  trusted  his  poetic  instinct  and 
would  not  withhold  any  good  thing  from  his 
growth.  Edmund's  guardian,  the  strict  and 
narrow-minded  deacon,  would  have  suffered  none 
other  than  Elizabeth  to  give  Edmund  the  books 
which  she  gave  him.  But  pretty  Elizabeth  was 
doing  so  well  in  a  worldly  way  that  Deacon  Sted- 
man  could  not  find  fault  with  her  judgment. 
Deferring  to  the  Will  of  a  Higher  Power,  she 
yet  managed  to  send  forward  her  own  will  like 
an  advance  agent  to  arrange  for  her  next  move. 
In  spontaneity  and  ardor,  Edmund  was  his  mother 
over  again.  Byron  was  the  breath  of  freedom  to 
him.  The  sunlight  breaking  on  the  surf  of  Greece 

—  the   blare   of   clarion   and   fife  —  the    canvas 
clapping  its  hands  for  gladness  —  intoxicated  him. 

Mary  too  devoured  Byron,  —  not  Mary  Hyde, 
Tom's   wife,   but   Tom's   saintlike   sister   Mary, 

—  seated  cross-legged  on  her  bedroom  floor  before 


250    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

her  highboy,  with  the  book  open  amid  laven 
der-sweet  linen.  At  the  sound  of  an  approaching 
foot,  she  rammed  the  drawer  shut  and,  with 
flaming  cheeks  and  eyes  that  burned,  fell  to  the 
knitting  which  she  held  in  her  lap.  And  the  good 
aunts  never  guessed. 

The  ring  of  adventure,  the  keen  scent  of  high 
emprise,  transported  Edmund.  To  him  books 
were  the  Chariot  of  Israel  and  the  Horesmen 
thereof.  They  were  wings.  Mr.  Coit,  his  Sun 
day-school  teacher,  whom  he  loved  and  revered, 
had  been  to  a  hundred  foreign  ports.  Only  to 
see  him  pass  on  the  street  made  the  deep  violet 
of  Edmund's  eyes  blaze.  His  spirit  burned  with 
in  him  at  the  sight  of  an  elephant's  tusk  or  a 
Hindoo  god  upon  a  cabinet.  When  Mr.  Coit 
talked  to  the  Sunday-school  class  about  Jonah 
and  the  whale,  Edmund  listened  as  to  one  who 
has  inside  information.  Mr.  Coit  was  a  good 
man,  —  Edmund  and  his  mates  had  decided  that 
point  among  themselves,  and  they  were  right; 
he  was  a  good  man.  Across  the  road  from  Sted- 
man  Manor  would  have  lived  Captain  Potter, 
and  a  stone's  throw  from  the  Peck  Tavern  would 


THE   GILDED   CAGE  251 

have  lived  Captain  Havens,  if  the  two  had  been 
content  to  live  on  land.  What  wonders  must 
there  not  be  in  the  deep,  when  Captain  Havens 
could  be  enticed  to  leave  his  fortnight's  bride, 
the  belle  of  the  town,  and  sail  away  on  a  three- 
year  whaling  voyage !  Next  door  to  Mr.  Coit 
lived  Mr.  Thomas.  His  house  was  also  enchant 
ing  with  sketches  of  naked  savages.  Naked 
savages !  there  was  something  about  a  native, 
naked  savage  that  brought  blood  to  Edmund's  eye. 

The  practical  and  the  romantic  were  bedfellows 
at  Norwich  Town,  and  Edmund  took  his  half  in 
the  middle.  He  alluded  to  the  Orient  as  famil 
iarly  as  if  he  had  come  to  Norwich  on  a  monsoon. 
He  gave  Particular  Perkins  a  black  eye,  because 
Particular  questioned  whether  Edmund's  mother 
was,  as  Edmund  maintained,  more  beautiful 
than  an  Asiatic  siren.  Edmund  was  furious  for 
his  mother's  reputation  as  a  beauty. 

For  a  moment  after  worsting  Particular,  Ed 
mund  was  too  dazed  to  realize  his  victory.  Then 
he  sat  down  with  a  thud,  and  surveying  Particular, 
repeated,  "My  mother  is  more  beautiful  than  an 
Asiatic  siren." 


252    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

Not  a  word  from  Particular. 
"In  a  hay-Tern"  added  Edmund  by  way  of 
emphasis. 

Particular  gave  no  sign. 
Edmund  began  again : 

"  I've  lived  at  ease  in  Libya, 
Where  maidens  all  are  fair. 
I've  viewed  the  hay-rem's  beauteous  flock. 
For  them  I  do  not  care. 
My  mother  she  is  lovelier  far 
Than  all  the  other  ladies  are." 

It  was  a  stanza  from  his  latest  poem. 

A  spasm  shook  Particular.  But  he  might 
have  been  a  deaf  mute ;  he  made  no  response. 

Unresting  and  untiring,  Edmund's  fancy  strayed 
everywhere.  In  his  unconscious  quest  for  what 
was  not,  he  was  easily  unmindful  of  barren 
dreariness.  His  hill-shadowed  bed  chamber  was 
now  the  City  of  Brass  and  now  the  Palace  of  the 
Alhambra ;  the  gutted  dip  against  his  wall  was 
the  sevenfold  candlestick;  he  had  only  to  turn 
the  leaf  of  his  book,  and  he  was  swept  through 
time  and  tide  and  stranded  on  Galapagos;  he 
had  only  to  hear  Mr.  Coit  say  Guerilla,  and  he 


THE  GILDED   CAGE  253 

himself  was  riding  a  la  Espagnole  from  Demerara 
to  Vera  Cruz.  Everything  was  actual  to  him. 
He  did  not  merely  read  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes; 
he  was  the  Moor,  laden  with  lucent  syrups  tinct 
with  cinnamon.  He  was  Sir  John  Franklin,  and 
the  Spy,  and  Alexander  Selkirk;  he  was  Roland 
Graeme  and  Roderick  Dhu  and  Captain  Bonne- 
ville;  he  was  piteous  Lear  and  compassionate 
Cordelia  both  in  one.  The  story  of  the  young 
king  seated  solitary  on  a  throne  who,  having  a 
wife  was  yet  wifeless,  and  who  was  youthless 
although  a  youth,  haunted  him.  Each  year  that 
he  lived  he  remembered  the  story  more  clearly. 
But  when  he  came  upon  felicity  pictured  on  a 
page,  or  freedom  mirrored  in  a  word  he  was  once 
more  like  a  sloop  with  her  keel  greeting  the 
sun  and  with  her  beam  drinking  the  sea.  He  has 
often  told  me  that  woes  more  crushing  or  happiness 
more  piercing  never  burdened  or  blest  his  later 
years.  He  has  told  me  that  nothing  is  sweeter 
than  young  joy,  unless  it  is  peace,  and  that  no 
horror  exceeds  the  nightmares  of  childhood  save 
fear,  the  most  terrible  of  all  the  emotions  which 
clutch  the  heart  of  man. 


254    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

He  hurried  just  as  he  hurried  when  a  child. 
He  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  future,  a  future 
with  his  mother.  When  he  brooded,  his  days 
were  lonely  —  his  loved  one  seemed  indefinitely 
removed.  When  he  was  glad,  his  days  were 
days  of  immeasurable  fulness.  The  future 
seemed  at  hand. 

Over  all  was  his  love  for  poetry,  his  passion  for 
immortal  excellence;  an  unconscious  outreaching 
desire  for  perfection  victorious  over  change. 
Lying  under  the  shade  and  light  of  the  elms  that 
arched  the  burial  ground,  he  gazed  at  their 
gnarled,  far  fingers  clasped  against  the  inscrutable 
sky.  He  looked  upon  those  mighty  trees  as 
though  they  were  deathless,  and  yet,  as  he  pon 
dered  and  dreamed,  tears  grew  in  his  eyes  and 
splashed  down  his  cheeks  to  the  grass. 

The  certainty  had  begun  to  stir  within  him 
that  it  is  in  men  to  be  more  than  earth  that 
perishes.  He  had  begun  to  dream  that  he  might 
live  when  the  trees  of  the  field  were  sod. 


XVIII 

THE  SNOWS  or  YESTERYEAR 

UNDER  the  Stedman  rooftree  it  seemed  as  if 
little  children  were  always  dying.  Mr.  Charles 
Stedman  grew  worn  and  stoop-shouldered,  peer 
ing  into  tiny  graves  to  see  if  they  were  rightly 
fashioned.  Beth,  his  patient  wife,  often  caught 
her  breath  as  she  sat  sewing  and,  clutching  some 
useless  sock  to  her  bosom,  leaned  sobbing  against 
the  wall.  First  and  last,  there  was  baby  Bessie, 
just  old  enough  to  lisp  : 

"  Gentle  Jesu,  meek  and  mild ;  " 

and  then  May,  one  year  older;  and  Henry  Bull, 
named  for  good  Doctor  Bull ;  and  Charles  Henry 
—  but  Charles  Henry  did  not  die  until  he  was 
past  five  years  old,  which  was  so  advanced  an 
age  for  Stedman  children  that  his  mother  was 
thankful  and  so  hopeful !  Then  Frederick  Strong 


256    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

died;  and  afterwards  the  baby  Edward  Strong, 
on  the  evening  of  his  only  fete-day ;  -  -  all  of 
these  Charles  Stedman's  children,  and  not  one  of 
them,  save  Charles  Henry,  had  seen  the  spring 
come  thrice.  Surely  it  was  never  planned  to 
take  so  many  little  children  from  one  mother. 
Perhaps  there  was  a  mistake  among  the  angels, 
or  some  ignorance  among  them  that  watched  their 
cradle.  But  there  was  One  who  must  have  cared, 
who  finding  none  amid  His  Shining  Legions  to 
handle  the  pretty  babes  as  knowingly  as  she  who 
bore  them,  fetched  their  mother  to  them;  and 
around  her  feet  they  lie,  in  the  burial  ground, 
like  a  swathe  of  budded  flowers. 

Then  Mary,  Tom's  wife,  died;  and  within  a 
year  Tom  died;  stalwart,  wind-ruddy  Tom  who 
had  never  known  a  sick  hour  in  his  life,  and  who, 
after  Mary's  burial,  rode  forth  in  stoic  strength 
like  a  prospering  Esquire,  while  everybody  whis 
pered  that  he  had  his  eye  out  for  another  help 
mate.  Stalwart,  season-hardened  Tom  was  taken 
sick  with  Mary's  cough  and  was  gone  like  a  flaw 
of  snow  in  April. 

Deacon  Stedman  bought  a  plot  in  the  new 


THE  SNOWS   OF  YESTERYEAR     257 

cemetery  that  was  laid  out  along  the  boys'  swim 
ming  pool  in  the  Yantic  River,  —  a  fairer  slope 
than  it  is  to-day,  when  the  city  fathers  filch 
its  loveliness  inch  by  inch  and  bury  it  under 
refuse. 

"Our  plot  is  four  times  as  large  as  anybody's 
else  plot,"  Edmund  boasted  when  it  was  bought. 
"My  uncle's  plot  is  four  ordinary  plots.  And 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  wasn't  large  enough 
now !"  he  added,  when  he  saw  that  he  was  making 
an  impression.  "But  as  I  told  my  uncle,  the 
little  ones  don't  take  up  so  much  room  as  the 
grown-ups,  and  when  two  die  the  same  day,  we 
can  bury  them  in  one  grave,  the  way  we  buried 
the  twins." 

There  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  general  con 
viction  around  the  Green  that  it  was  vastly  nicer 
to  go  to  the  house  of  mourning  than  to  the  house 
of  feasting.  But  although  Edmund  preferred 
the  feasting,  he  took  the  funerals  philosophically. 
He  liked  to  have  his  family  in  the  lead;  and  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  speak  right  proudly  that  his 
uncle  had  the  finest  funerals  and  the  most  funerals 
in  the  town ;  that  his  uncle  could  beat  everybody 


258    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

in  the  line  of  having  funerals  and  doctors.  When 
a  spring  passed  with  no  funeral  to  mark  it,  Ed 
mund  felt  abashed  and  untrustworthy,  and  not 
until  August,  when  the  twins  died,  did  he  feel 
that  his  uncle's  reputation  was  retrieved.  Aside 
from  making  double  amends  for  lost  mortuary 
laurels,  the  death  of  the  twins  arrested  his  thoughts 
very  little.  He  was  even  fretted  and  harassed 
because  of  having  to  give  up  time  to  the  ob 
sequies.  At  the  grave,  he  stood  first  with  his 
toes  turned  out  like  the  parson  and  then  with 
his  toes  turned  in  like  pigeon-toed  Lathrop ;  and 
he  yawned  profoundly.  You  see  he  was  in  the 
midst  of  reading  the  Arabian  Nights;  and  reason 
ably  it  was  of  much  less  moment  to  have  two 
babies  sicken  and  sleep  than  to  be  forced  to  leave 
Ali  Baba  in  the  cave  of  the  Forty  Thieves. 
Edmund's  heels  were  set  in  graveyard  clay,  but 
his  heart  was  in  Arabia. 

Yet  when  he  was  back  at  his  book,  or  was 
saying  Sesame  to  the  darkness  as  he  dreamed 
awake  in  his  bed,  the  faces  of  the  twins,  —  pale 
against  their  one  pillow  of  immortelles,  —  emerged 
strangely  from  the  time-yellowed  page,  or  from 


THE   SNOWS  OF  YESTERYEAR     259 

the  gloom  of  his  bedchamber's  unlighted  night 
and  drifted  before  his  eyes. 

When  Lewis,  Tom's  firstborn,  died,  the  third 
summer  after  the  death  of  the  twins,  and  just  a 
year  afterwards  little  Henry  followed,  Edmund 
had  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  concern  steal  upon 
him,  and  he  stared  at  the  flower-coverleted  little 
form,  thinking  of  the  painted  bob  that  he  tucked 
beneath  the  tiny  fingers,  and  which  the  baby 
fingers  did  not  take.  It  was  well  enough  for 
girls  to  die,  but  it  was  another  matter  when 
Turville  dropped  top  and  kite,  and  too  weak  to 
lift  his  hand,  lay  with  his  head  in  Annie's  lap, 
while  his  mates  took  turns  in  making  him  ready 
for  bed. 

At  night,  Edmund  roused  himself  from  sleep 
to  draw  the  coverlet  over  his  brother  Charlie, 
and  by  day  he  slackened  his  pace  to  Charlie's; 
but  he  clapped  him  on  the  back  and  cried,  "Stir 
your  pegs,  old  Codger ;  don't  be  a  milksop  !" 

Charlie  —  a  milksop !  an  orphan,  ailing  in  an 
alien  house  and  never  once  repining. 

An  unforgettable  happiness  came  to  Edmund 
during  those  latter  days  of  his  childhood.  Seven 


260    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

years  had  passed  since  the  Thanksgiving  when 
his  mother  came  to  visit  him  and  brought  with 
her  a  new  husband.  Now  she  returned  —  not 
for  an  hour,  or  a  day,  but  for  a  visit !  —  and 
brought  two  darling  little  girls.  They  were 
Edmund's  half-sisters.  Clementine,  the  older, 
had  eyes  much  like  Edmund's,  the  same  deep 
violet,  with  dark  lashes,  black  by  contrast  with 
her  shining  hair.  She  did  not  look  in  the  least 
like  her  father.  Neither  did  her  baby  sister, 
Mary.  Edmund,  Charlie,  Clementine,  Mary, 
and  pretty  Elizabeth  herself,  looked  like  a  family 
of  five  children,  and  Honorable  Mr.  Kinney  did 
not  appear  to  have  any  part  in  the  affair.  I  dare 
say  that  he  looked  upon  their  youthfulness  as  the 
sea  of  his  severance.  Edmund  did  not  hang 
about  his  mother  as  once  he  hung  about  her,  for 
the  reason  that  she  had  her  little  daughters,  and 
that  he  was  the  brother  of  two  little  girls  who 
were  to  be  guarded  and  escorted.  But  his  eyes 
lifted  to  his  mother's  eyes  with  the  most  adoring 
love,  and  it  was  "Mother,  here  is  a  footstool," 
before  she  guessed  that  she  wanted  it,  and 
"Mother,  let  me."  and  her  scarf  was  around  her 


THE  SNOWS  OF  YESTERYEAR     261 

throat  before  she  felt  the  night-damp.  Mr. 
Kinney,  who  was  profound  but  not  quick-witted, 
was  beside  himself.  And  Elizabeth  would  lean 
towards  him  and  say  with  tantalizing  sweet 
ness,  "Isn't  Edmund  a  delight?  Did  you  ever 
know  a  lad  so  tender  and  so  thoughtful,  and, 
Mr.  Kinney,  have  you  heard  what  strides  he  has 
made  with  his  books !  He  reads  Latin  as  easily 
as  English !  He  is  going  to  enter  the  University 
at  fifteen  —  to  please  his  mother,  mind  you ! 
He  is  going  to  try  for  the  English  prize,  of  course, 
and  he  will  take  it  too.  No  one  shall  outstrip 
my  boy." 

Mr.  Kinney  loved  her  to  desperation.  He 
stalked  up  and  down.  He  shifted  the  twin  mani 
kins  on  the  shelf  with  an  abruptness  which  threat 
ened  to  undo  them.  But  when  he  strode  into 
the  entry,  Elizabeth  glided  to  the  threshold, 
closed  the  door,  and  turned  the  key.  She  must 
not  have  her  thoughts  distracted  by  outside 
interruptions  when  she  was  helping  her  Edmund. 

Edmund  adored  his  mother;  he  hung  upon 
her  least  hint  in  regard  to  his  studies.  When 
she  told  him  that  she  expected  him  to  bend 


262    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

every  nerve  and  effort  to  becoming  a  notable 
man,  he  was  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  fervor;  he 
forgot  play  and  the  passing  hour ;  and  when  she 
told  him  that  he  must  think  of  others  first,  that 
he  must  not  consider  his  right  to  study  as  more 
important  than  another's  right,  he  was  torn  with 
conflicting  self-interest  and  self-abnegation,  and 
ready  to  despair.  To  become  great,  and  to  think 
rather  of  others  than  of  oneself  seemed  an  im 
possible  combination.  But  when  she  whispered 
to  him  "Yale",  he  was  silent,  for  his  heart  said 
"Princeton."  Enter  Yale,  a  hundred  miles  re 
moved  from  her  in  Newark,  when  he  could  be 
half  that  distance  nearer !  He  set  his  heart  on 
going  to  Princeton. 

She  overlooked  his  first  drafts  of  groping 
verse ;  she  showed  him  his  good  points  and  ex 
plained  why  they  were  good ;  she  showed  him  his 
faults,  and  told  him  how  to  overcome  them. 
Without  his  knowing  it  and  without  knowing  it 
herself,  she  taught  him  to  be  a  true  critic. 

Soon  she  was  telling  him  that  he  disclosed 
promise  of  doing  better  work  than  she  had  done. 
Joy-blinded,  she  kissed  his  blinded  eyes,  —  she 


THE  SNOWS  OF  YESTERYEAR     263 

was  so  proud,  so  glad.  "My  Poet-boy !"  she 
murmured,  while  his  mad  bleed  surged  in  his  ears, 
and  the  room  swayed  around  him  in  his  rapture. 

The  two  had  many  an  artless  conference  to 
gether,  with  head  against  head  over  a  scrap  of 
paper,  and  with  eyes  aglow  with  earnestness. 
Mr.  Kinney  looked  upon  these  tete-a-tetes  with 
an  unforgiving  countenance ;  he  was  of  the  opin 
ion  that  Deacon  Stedman  was  responsible  for 
Edmund's  education,  and  that  Elizabeth  ought 
not  to  be  burdened. 

Burdened  indeed  —  those  two  lovers,  mother 
and  son !  Elizabeth  locked  Edmund  alone  with 
her,  whenever  she  was  of  a  mind  to  have  a  talk  with 
him.  She  knew  that  a  mother  should  respect 
a  young  son's  confidences.  If  Mr.  Kinney's 
step  was  heard  in  the  hallway,  she  shot  like 
sunlight  to  the  door  and,  breaking  into  girlish 
laughter,  flung  it  wide,  and  asked  him  if  he  was 
looking  for  her.  And  when  he  said,  "No,  no, 
my  Dear, "  she  pulled  his  august  head  prone  with 
her  sparkling  fingers  and  set  so  playful  a  kiss  on 
the  one  spot  where  his  hair  had  taken  leave  that 
for  the  moment  he  was  willing  to  walk  away  aim- 


264    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

lessly ;  and  when  he  walked  away,  she  locked  the 
door  again. 

Elizabeth  knew  how  to  manage  her  husband. 
She  combined  tact,  helpfulness,  and  charm. 
The  uncouth  entered  her  presence  and  left  it, 
bearing  a  touch  of  the  patrician.  She  could 
not  help  lifting  the  lowly  toward  her  level; 
she  made  gods  of  the  great.  Perfection  was 
her  passion. 

I  could  tell  you  more  of  Mr.  Kinney,  who  was 
a  commanding  personage  in  the  world  of  men, 
although  a  boyish  unbalance  smote  him  at  a 
teasing  look  from  his  child- wife.  She  was  irre 
sistibly  fascinating.  If  she  had  quoted  to  him,  - 
while  unpacking  the  eighty  ball  dresses  which 
she  brought  from  the  Italian  court,  —  Pope's 
epigram  on  Bacon,  he  would  have  beamed  as  if 
sanctified.  He  was  her  willing  slave.  He  suf 
fered  excruciatingly  from  gout,  and  when  his 
throes  were  at  their  worst,  bellowed  like  Bashan. 
Each  time  that  he  underwent  an  attack,  he  would 
say  that  he  could  not  understand  why  he  was 
afflicted,  inasmuch  as  he  had  never  had  a  touch 
of  ill  health  until  that  hour.  And  when  he  was 


THE  SNOWS  OF  YESTERYEAR     265 

well  again,  he  swore  that  he  had  never  been  ill 
a  day  in  his  life,  which  was  just  what  he  should 
have  said,  and  just  what  you  and  I  will  doubtless 
say  if  either  of  us  happen  in  a  like  case.  He  was 
a  downright  fine  scholar  of  the  old  school.  He 
sat  up  till  morning  in  his  library,  like  the  gentle 
man  he  was,  drank  whisky  and  read  Aristotle 
and  Plato.  But  he  came  down  to  eight  o'clock 
breakfast  as  fresh  as  may  be.  During  the  days 
in  Italy,  when  Mrs.  Kinney  was  pleasure-driving 
with  him  through  the  mountains,  her  fat  Pomer 
anian  Toto  jolted  from  her  lap  now  and  then  and 
rolled  to  the  ground.  "Arretez!"  Mrs.  Kinney 
would  say  in  elegant  leisure  to  her  coachman. 
But  to  Mr.  Kinney  she  said,  "Mr.  Kinney  - 
Toto!"  and  that  gentleman,  testing  the  timber's 
state,  climbed  stiffly  down  and  trudged  back  for 
the  Pomeranian  who  sat  in  the  road  waiting  for 
the  Honorable  Minister  to  Italy  to  deposit  him 
on  his  mistress's  knees. 

Clementine  was  a  little  love,  a  born  coquette. 
She  placed  her  hand  in  Edmund's  with  coy,  en 
trusting  sweetness.  He  lifted  her  to  the  arm  of 


266    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

the  settle  and  seated  himself  beside  her.  Charlie 
had  taken  Mary  to  himself. 

"Clementine,"  Edmund  whispered  in  spite  of 
his  intent  to  say  nothing  to  make  her  feel  con 
strained,  "won't  you  be  my  little  girl?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  the  wee  fairy  decidedly. 
Then,  with  a  lengthening  glance  at  the  tall  slight 
youth  above  her,  she  added  yieldingly,  "but  I 
will  let  you  be  my  little  boy." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  a  story?"  he  asked.  Story 
telling  was  his  chief  magic. 

"Not  about  bears,"  said  Miss  Clementine 
quickly,  "nor  mouses !" 

The  story  ran  on  pleasantly.  Miss  Clementine 
let  herself  down  from  the  settle's  arm  to  her 
brother's  knee.  Her  charmed  eyes  did  not  waver 
from  his  lips,  and  she  sighed  when  the  tale  was 
done.  "That  was  a  nice  story,"  she  told  him. 
"Boy,  do  you  know  any  more?"  She  folded 
her  hands  upon  her  blue  sash. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  my  little  girl?"  he 
entreated. 

"Perhaps,"  whispered  Miss  Clementine  softly. 

And  so  it  was  covenanted,  and  throughout  the 


THE  SNOWS  OF  YESTERYEAR     267 

bright  length  of  that  brief  visit,  Edmund  played 
that  Clementine  belonged  to  him  and  was  his 
very  own. 

It  was  after  Clementine  had  gone  away,  to 
gether  with  the  little  sister,  the  fair  mother  and 
Honorable  Mr.  Kinney,  that  Tom's  wife,  Mary, 
died.  And  when  she  died,  she  left  behind  her  a 
tiny  daughter  whom  Tom  called  " little  Mary." 

Edmund  was  studying  to  enter  the  university 
that  autumn,  and  through  the  sultry  dog  days, 
he  sat  in  Mary's  curtained  bedchamber,  rocking 
the  baby's  cradle.  He  was  comforted  for  Clemen 
tine's  loss  after  a  more  complete  and  a  sweeter 
fashion  than  he  had  dreamed  could  fall  to  him. 
He  droned  over  his  Greek  verbs  with  his  head  on 
little  Mary's  pillow,  and  his  dream-filled  gaze 
fixed  on  her  sleeping  lids.  He  sang  lullabies  to 
her  of  his  own  making  in  whispering  beguilement ; 
he  cooed  to  her  when  she  cooed,  and  quieted  her 
when  she  cried.  He  spent  hour  in  and  hour  out 
with  her,  and,  kneeling  while  she  slept,  circled 
her  pillow  with  one  arm,  while  with  his  free  hand 
he  turned  the  pages  of  his  grammar.  He  had 
felt  bitter  towards  his  uncle  and  aunts,  —  bitter 


268    A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHILDHOOD 

toward  the  whole  of  Norwich  Town,  which  in 
truth  was  crude  and  stulted  to  one  of  his  high 
breed  and  spirit.  But  a  new  life  entered  his  life 
with  his  intelligent  keen  love  for  little  Mary. 
His  life  had  been  as  narrow  as  a  well,  now  it 
became  as  deep.  He  had  a  live  thing  to  love. 
He  heard  his  uncle's  voice  in  the  orchard ;  he 
heard  his  aunts'  footfalls  come  and  go  in  the 
busy  house.  Ah,  how  good  was  his  guardian 
to  let  him  sit  by  little  Mary !  How  kind  were 
his  aunts  and  cousins  to  let  him  nurse  the  babe 
and  tend  its  cradle  !  He  felt  poignantly  grateful. 
The  possession  that  he  had  yearned  for  was  his; 
his  was  a  fullness  of  love  for  which  his  heart  had 
hungered.  To  have  a  little  child  all  of  a  man's 
own  seemed  to  him  the  most  celestial  bliss  that 
God  could  bestow  on  mortals.  He  kissed  the 
clinging  fingers.  His  smiles  rained  down  upon 
the  hair-drift  on  the  pillow. 

And  little  Mary  slumbered ;  and,  not  lacking 
for  a  mother's  love,  little  Mary  waxed  strong. 


XIX 

THE  DOORSTEP 

IT  was  in  the  Old  Academy  at  Norwich  Town, 
the  second  year  before  Edmund  went  to  Yale, 
that  he  made  his  initial  appearance  as  a  man 

among  men.  Anna  G ,  a  newcomer  at  the 

Green,  was  the  first  young  lady  in  his  life  to  take 
him  seriously. 

The  academy  at  the  Landing,  where  Ed  Har- 
land  prepared  for  college,  was  held  by  Mr. 
Pettis  on  the  second  floor  of  a  columned  house 
in  School  Street  that  overlooked  the  town  and 
half  the  county.  It  was  the  school  of  the  bloods. 
Edwin  Ely,  Jim  Coit,  and  Will  Aiken  —  all  of 
whom  became  generals  during  the  Civil  War  — 
also  attended.  Tom  Harland,  Dan  Gilman,  Don 
Mitchell,  Ike  Bromley,  and  Jonathan  Trumbull 
widened,  first  and  last,  the  circle  of  the  gifted 
and  the  merry.  Mr.  Pettis  did  not  whip. 


270    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

On  the  hillside  topping  Pettis's  Academy  was 
an  excellent  free  school  kept  by  Mr.  Joseph 
Thurston  and  Miss  Gilbert.  Mr.  Thurston  and 
Miss  Gilbert,  he  in  front  and  she  following  hard 
upon  him,  bent  almost  double  as  they  toiled  up 
the  perpendicular  path  of  rolling  gravel  on  their 
way  to  their  school.  Just  far  enough  to  their 
rear  to  be  out  of  reach  the  bad  boys  pursued  them, 
mocking. 

"Old  Joe!- 
Old  Joe !  - 

Old  Joe  kicking  up  ahind  and  afore ! 
Miss  Gilbert  kicking  up  ahind  Old  Joe !" 

Old  Joe  flogged,  birched,  rattanned,  made 
untoward  pupils  toe  the  mark,  and  what  was 
worse,  sent  them  upstairs  to  Miss  Gilbert  to  en 
dure  the  punishment  of  standing  in  the  middle 
of  her  floor  among  her  girls.  But  to  crawl  aloft 
only  to  find  that  lovely  Mary  Prentice  was  doing 
penance  on  the  floor,  to  be  condemned  to  the 
delight  of  sharing  her  ignominy,  was  the  pleas 
ing  pain  that  fell  to  my  father's  lot  during  his  one 
day  in  the  school.  His  father,  my  grandfather, 
at  once  sent  him  back  to  Mr.  Pettis.  He  had 


THE  DOORSTEP  271 

sent  his  boy  to  Mr.  Thurston  to  be  birched,  not 
to  be  set  among  girls. 

The  Norwich  Town  Academy  was  opened  in  the 
Old  Court  House  on  the  Green  when  the  court 
was  transferred  to  the  Landing.  Doctor  Gul 
liver,  Mr.  Aikman,  and  other  dignitaries  ruled 
and  feruled  in  pedagogic  succession.  They  were 
without  competitors  in  the  field.  The  serene, 
quaint  three-story  building  gazed  east  and  west 
through  dormer  windows.  Weeping  willows 
swept  the  panes  with  frail  tracery,  or  drew  in 
across  the  sills  like  curtains.  The  stairs  were 
folksy,  —  dim  and  worn  and  easy.  Edmund 
and  his  mates  did  not  mount  in  pairs  like  the 
elephant  and  the  kangaroo.  They  straggled 
along  in  shoals;  for  Edmund,  you  must  know, 
attended  the  Norwich  Town  Academy  because 
of  Judge  Stedman's  loyalty  to  birch  as  well  as 
to  breeding. 

To-day  Norwich  Town  has  a  Queen  Anne 
schoolhouse,  —  I  wish  it  were  defunct !  —  multi 
colored,  with  a  dirt  yard  and  smug  maple  trees 
planted  at  exact  intervals  on  the  turnpike.  Every 
one  who  passed  the  Old  Academy  stopped  to 


272    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

look  at  it.  Every  one  who  passes  the  new  school- 
house  stops  to  look  at  it  too ! 

Edmund  was  hardly  settled  in  the  large  room 
in  the  Old  Academy  than  he  was  sent  to 
sit  on  the  girls'  side.  Anna  had  no  deskmate, 
so  Anna  was  his  victim.  As  he  sat  down  in 
the  double  seat  beside  her,  she  folded  close 
her  skirts  with  an  air  of  effronted  excellence; 
she  would  let  him  see  that  she  eschewed  the 
wicked. 

"Hello,  Anna !"  he  said  softly. 

She  gave  him  a  stony  frown. 

He  glanced  at  the  sum  on  her  slate. 

She  rubbed  the  slate  blank. 

" I'll  do  your  sums  for  you;  would  you  like 
me  to,  Anna?"  he  whispered  at  the  risk  of  a 
strapping. 

She  took  her  Speller,  turned  her  back  squarely 
upon  him,  and  sat  with  her  feet  in  the  aisle. 

Anna's  ears  hid  in  her  hair.  They  were  like 
bits  of  dawn.  Her  cheek  too  was  dawnlike. 
The  minutes  were  long,  and  the  minutes  were 
slow.  He  filched  Anna's  pencil  furtively,  be 
guiled  by  the  bare  surface  of  the  slate.  He  drew 


THE  DOORSTEP  273 

a  picture  of  Anna ;  he  drew  a  picture  of  himself. 
He  set  off  his  own  likeness  with  huge  moustaches. 
At  the  foot  of  the  slate,  he  wrote : 

"This  picture  is  of  A  and  ME. 
A  is  my  girl,  and  7  am  E.n 

"  Anna ! "  he  whispered.  His  whisper  was  softer 
than  a  sigh. 

Curiosity  mastered  Anna's  chilly  righteousness. 
She  turned  her  head  a  mite.  In  her  simplicity, 
she  gazed  at  the  magnificent  moustaches  —  the 
bewildering  combination  of  A  and  ME,  and  / 
and  E,  not  comprehending.  Then  it  came  to 
her  that  the  lady  was  she,  —  she  who  never 
broke  a  rule,  —  and  that  the  disgraced  Edmund 
called  her  his  girl.  Her  brow  blazed  with  shame. 
She  was  merciless ;  she  laid  the  back  of  her  hand 
against  her  nose  and  pointed  her  forefinger  at 
him. 

" Fie  !"  she  said. 

He  colored  to  his  throat.  He  tried  to  meet 
her  glare  for  glare,  but  he  could  only  swallow. 

After  school,  when  they  met  in  the  lane,  they 
were  enemies.  They  detested  each  other;  they 
would  not  walk  on  the  same  flagstones.  After 


274    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

a  year's  rivalry  in  looks  of  undisguised  estrange 
ment  or  obtrusive  indifference,  Anna  came  un 
expectedly  upon  Edmund  as  he  stepped  from 
the  store.  Just  behind  him  stalked  Particular 
Perkins.  If  Anna  sniffed  at  Edmund,  Particular 
would  espy  it.  Moreover,  the  two  had  outgrown 
childishness.  Her  nose  turned  up,  her  lips  pursed, 
but  she  stayed  on  the  flagstones  where  she  be 
longed.  So  likewise  did  Edmund.  They  blushed. 
"Good  morning,  Anna!'7  said  Edmund,  the 
next  time  that  they  passed.  "Good  morning, 
Edmund!"  she  murmured  and  hastened  as  if  to 
answer  a  summons  from  home. 

When  April  came,  Anna  in  the  gush  of  rosy 
youth,  shot  up  to  the  height  of  the  sweetbrier 
that  climbed  the  garden  wall. 

"To  me,  when  in  the  sudden  spring, 

I  hear  the  earliest  robin's  lay, 
With  the  first  thrill  there  comes  again 
One  picture  of  the  May. 

"The  veil  is  parted  wide,  and  lo, 

A  moment,  though  my  eyelids  close, 
Once  more  I  see  the  wooded  hill 
Where  the  arbutus  grows. 


THE  DOORSTEP  275 

"I  see  the  village  dryad  kneel, 

Trailing  her  slender  fingers  through 
The  knotted  tendrils,  as  she  lifts 
Their  pale  pink  flowers  to  view. 

"Hark !  from  the  moss-clung  apple-bough 
Beyond  the  tumbled  wall,  there  broke 
The  gurgling  music  of  the  May,  — 
'Twas  the  first  robin  spoke !" 

Edmund  and  Anna  listened  to  the  robins. 
They  wandered  over  Wawecus  Hill,  searching 
for  the  Mayflower  amid  the  lingering  snow. 
Together  they  sat  on  the  burying-ground  wall 
under  the  weeping  willows,  while  the  orchard 
behind  them  rained  apple  blossoms.  Edmund 
read  poetry  to  Anna,  but  Anna  —  the  dryad! 
—  did  not  care  for  print  and  paper.  She  plaited 
herself  a  wreath,  and  with  the  brook  for  a  mirror, 
crowned  her  careless  hair.  Sometimes  she  set 
herself  to  braiding  the  grasses  that  stood  around 
her  and  so  beguiled  the  time  until  Edmund  should 
be  done.  When  he  finished  reading,  he  would 
ask,  "Was  that  not  beautiful,  Anna?"  and  Anna 
would  answer,  "Yes,  Ned,"  not  knowing  what 
he  had  read,  or  what  it  was  that  he  asked,  and 


276    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

lifting  her  eyes  halfway  to  his  in  timid  uncer 
tainty. 

And  it  was  beautiful,  —  the  drifting  shadows, 
the  sweet  air,  the  solitude  of  loveliness,  and  the 
simplicity  of  unconsciously  passing  childhood. 
Besides,  there  was  the  brook  flowing  sweetly  and 
endlessly,  turning  from  their  twin  shadow  to  kiss 
the  grassy  mounds  and  gliding  lightly  to  the  river. 

When  Anna  loitered  in  the  lane,  Edmund 
happened  by;  and  when  Edmund  took  the  path 
across-lots,  Anna  happened  at  the  stile. 

"Stedman,  if  you  are  so  smitten  on  Anna  G., 
why  don't  you  beau  her  home  from  meeting?" 
tauntingly  inquired  Ed  Harland,  who  was  sup 
posed  to  have  gotten  the  mitten,  since  he  would 
beau  nobody  those  days. 

Edmund  beaued  Anna  home.  When  he  was 
older,  he  set  the  memory  of  the  snowlit  night  to 
song.  The  snowbird  was  Anna,  his  dryad  of 
the  Mayflowers ;  Maple  Lane  was  the  lane  past 
Fuller's  store;  and  the  " Doorstep"  was  the 
doorstep  of  Anna's  house,  —  the  house  where  I 
lived  when  I  was  a  little  girl  like  Anna,  and  where 
I  first  knew  Mr.  Stedman. 


THE  DOORSTEP  277 

The  Doorstep 

"The  conference-meeting  through  at  last, 

We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited, 
To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past 
Like  snow-birds  willing  to  be  mated. 

"Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 

By  level-musket  flashes  litten, 
Than  I  who  stepped  before  them  all 
Who  longed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 

"But  no,  she  blushed  and  took  my  arm ! 

We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Farm 
Along  a  kind  of  lover's  by-way. 

"I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 

'Twas  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story ; 
Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glory. 

"The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 

The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming ; 
By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet, 
Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was  beaming. 

"The  little  hand  outside  her  muff,  - 

Oh,  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould  it !  — 
So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 


278    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

"To  have  her  there  with  me  alone,  - 

'Twas  love  and  fear  and  triumph  blended. 
At  last  we  reached  the  foot-worn  stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

"The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home, 

Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fingered, 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 
Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lingered. 

"She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood 

And  with  a  'Thank  you,  Ned,'  dissembled, 
But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 
With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

"A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it, 
Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 

1  Come,  now  or  never,  do  it !  do  it  I ' 

"My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 

The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 
But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 
Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth,  —  I  kissed  her ! 

"Perhaps  'twas  boyish  love,  yet  still, 
Oh,  listless  woman,  weary  lover ! 
To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill 
I'd  give  —  but  who  can  live  youth  over  ! " 


THE  DOORSTEP  279 

On  his  first  holiday  from  Yale,  Edmund  called 
on  Anna.  Despite  dream  and  desire,  he  had 
entered  Yale.  His  guardian's  choice  was  fixed, 
and  his  mother  acquiesced.  He  intended  to 
pay  his  respects  to  Anna's  family,  but  the  elder 
sister  Emily,  who  let  him  in,  led  him  straightway 
to  the  closed,  cold  parlor.  She  felt  her  way 
across  the  room  and  left  him  sitting  on  a  horse 
hair-covered  chair.  She  had  regarded  him  cu 
riously.  Her  folk  were  not  considered  the  equal 
of  the  Norwich  Town  folk;  they  hailed  from  a 
region  on  the  Hudson  River.  To  hail  from  the 
Hudson  was  considered  more  questionable,  if 
possible,  than  to  hail  from  Cleveland.  Cleveland 
was  at  least  settled  by  the  Cleveland  family  of 
Norwich.  Forebears  not  bom  in  New  England 
are  of  course  little  better  than  no  forebears  at 
all.  When  Emily  returned  to  the  parlor,  she 
brought  Anna  and  a  tiny  spirit  lamp.  She 
placed  the  lamp  on  the  high  mantle-shelf.  Anna 
placed  herself  on  the  chilly  sofa  beneath  it. 
Emily  retreated  circumspectly,  latching  the  door 
behind  her.  The  sounds  of  family  bustle  in  the 
kitchen  came  to  a  hush.  Edmund  sat  still  and 


280    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

erect  on  his  black  chair.  Through  the  closed 
doors,  the  measured  voice  of  the  grandfather 
clock  could  be  heard,  telling  the  moments  soberly. 

"I  have  heard  tell  that  it  is  very  fine  in  Yale," 
Anna  at  last  murmured. 

"We  have  registers,"  said  Edmund.  The 
furnace  in  the  university  chapel  fascinated  him. 
He  spread  his  hands  in  its  warmth  whenever  he 
was  unobserved. 

She  spoke  again.  "I  have  heard  tell  that 
you  are  very  smart." 

He  stared  at  the  lamp.  How  kithless  and  mor 
tal  it  seemed !  Its  tristful  ray  and  Anna's  pen 
sive  face  each  lighted  a  niche  in  the  lifeless  room. 
He  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 

"We  have  registers  in  the  chapel,"  he  re 
peated,  after  another  long  silence.  "In  my 
room,  I  have  a  wood  stove,  but  we  don't  ha,ve  a 
fire  in  it  now.  We  have  burned  all  our  wood, 
so  we  have  to  wait  till  next  term." 

"I  suppose  you  are  sorry  to  come  home,"  said 
Anna  plaintively.  Poor  little  Anna !  Without 
her  whilom  comrade,  her  days  were  like  an 
emptied  cup. 


THE  DOORSTEP  281 

"Everything  around  the  Green  seems  slower 
than  it  used  to  be,"  replied  Edmund. 

It  was  true.  Everything  was  slower  without 
Edmund.  The  grandfather  clock  reflected  for 
a  moment  and  then  ticked,  "Yes."  The  slow 
sound  of  its  ticking  gave  Edmund  a  feeling  that 
he  had  tarried  as  long  as  was  mannerly  for  a  first 
call.  He  arose,  shook  hands  with  Anna,  and 
stepped  into  the  star-soft  night.  He  walked  back 
and  forth  through  the  Hollow  where  he  had  scur 
ried  as  a  child.  He  felt  unsatisfied  and  yet  at 
peace.  Under  its  silvery  shield  Bobbin-Mill 
Brook  —  his  brook  —  sped  from  his  feet  onwards 
to  the  river  and  called  to  him  as  it  ran.  He 
thought  of  his  mother,  his  books,  his  future. 
He  could  outdo  his  classmates  without  striving. 
"When  I  am  twenty-one,  I  shall  be  free,"  he  said 
aloud;  and  the  ripples  sang  under  the  ice.  By 
delving  and  dallying  in  the  offices  of  the  Courier, 
he  had  learned  the  making  of  a  newspaper  from 
start  to  finish.  It  was  his  secret,  his  surprise  for 
the  mother  he  loved.  Soon,  sooner  than  his 
dear  one  dreamed,  he  would  try  his  fortunes  in  a 
city  office  as  a  writer ;  he  would  live  near  her  at 


282    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

last ;  perhaps  even  have  a  home  where  she  might 
visit  him;  and  he  would  make  his  home  so  fair 
that  she  would  wish  to  linger.  Charlie,  sensitive, 
refined,  considerate  Charlie,  should  live  with 
him  too.  Perhaps  —  who  knew  —  he  might  have 
little  Anna  for  his  wife.  On  and  on,  his  musings 
ran  to  the  river,  and  above  his  plans  hung  the 
thought  of  his  mother,  a  luminous  sky  arching 
its  stars  above  the  hills. 

Already  he  was  foregoing  play  for  poetry. 
I  have  his  boyhood's  own  book  with  his  pencil 
lines  around  the  words, 

Quod  si  me  lyricis  vatibus  inseris 
Sublime  feriam  sidera  vertice 

which  means  that  if  Song  would  only  let  him 
join  the  ring  of  them  that  sing  around  her,  Glad 
ness  would  lift  his  head  to  the  stars.  He  was 
writing  his  first  long  poem,  Purgatorio,  and  the 
joy  of  yielding  to  an  impulse  that  came  without 
labor  and  yet  spurred  him  to  laborious  toil  was 
inexpressible.  It  was  a  deep,  exultant  joy  to 
beat  back  and  forth  for  a  word,  and  suddenly 
to  come  upon  it;  suddenly  to  write  better  than 
he  knew  how,  —  to  have  a  phrase,  a  line,  an 


THE  DOORSTEP  283 

image,  spring  through  his  pen  before  he  knew 
that  it  was  there.  Revelation  of  some  hiding 
power  somewhere,  greater  than  himself,  outside 
himself,  yet  leagued  with  him  and  ready  to  lay 
bare  its  holy  arm  and  run  with  swift  feet  to  his 
help  if  only  he  made  the  rough  places  smooth, 
if  only  he  made  the  paths  straight.  Not  by 
might,  nor  by  power,  but  by  the  spirit.  He  could 
not  sleep  for  happiness.  Fruitionless  drudgery 
and  the  crowning  instant  were  alike  to  him.  He 
had  found  what  he  wanted  to  do  in  life,  and  he 
knew  that  he  could  do  it. 

When  he  reached  his  guardian's  house,  he 
opened  the  door  noiselessly  and  mounted  the 
bare  stairway  to  his  chamber.  High  over  the 
poplar-pillared  hills,  the  golden  moon  was  soar 
ing.  He  seated  himself  on  the  floor  at  his  window, 
and  with  his  head  on  the  golden  sill,  followed  the 
moon.  He  could  hear  his  brook,  afar  and  musical, 
beating  melody  from  its  barriers.  The  future 
seemed  full  to  overflowing  and  piercingly  sweet. 
His  feeling  of  bitterness  toward  the  house,  which 
in  spite  of  his  love  for  little  Mary  was  not  home, 
passed  from  him.  His  chafing  under  his  surround- 


284    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

ings,  his  eager  restlessness,  the  aching  languish- 
ment  of  hope  deferred,  waned.  On  the  shore  of 
his  young  life,  the  tide  of  time  that  had  ebbed 
and  flooded,  bearing  promises  to  his  feet  and 
bearing  them  away,  halted  for  a  gracious  hour 
and  lay  still.  His  cares  —  his  thought  for  Charlie, 
his  guileless  innocent  solicitude  for  his  mother's 
welfare,  the  memory  of  the  hyacinths  in  blue 
bottles  in  how  many  casements !  —  seemed  borne 
beyond  his  ken  and  beyond  the  need  of  him. 
Only  three  years  to  freedom  —  three  years  to 
his  mother  !  She  and  he,  —  they~  were  to  have 
heavenly  times  together.  They  had  promised 
each  the  other. 

And  in  less  than  the  school-year,  he  was  stand 
ing  on  the  steamer  wharf  in  the  great  metropolis. 
Flowers,  baskets  of  flowers,  armfuls  of  flowers, 
flowers  carried  by  friends,  flowers  held  aloft  by 
porters,  streamed  up  the  gangway  to  the  giant 
ship  like  gardens  moving.  The  deck  was  strewn 
with  flowers.  Little  Clementine  and  Mary  trod 
upon  them  and  stood  like  born  princesses.  And 
between  her  lovely  daughters,  throned  in  an  easy 
chair,  embowered  in  roses  and  with  a  bouquet 


THE  DOORSTEP  285 

for  her  footstool,  sat  beautiful  Elizabeth,  receiv 
ing  the  farewell  embraces  of  the  three  hundred 
friends  and  acquaintances  who  had  come  to  bid 
her  Bon  Voyage !  It  was  her  hour  of  triumph. 
Honorable  William  Kinney  had  been  appointed 
Minister  of  the  United  States  to  Italy.  She  and 
he  and  her  little  girls  were  to  sail  away  from  crude 
America  and  make  their  home  on  the  hearth 
of  Art,  close  to  the  heart  of  Poetry.  The  scene 
was  like  a  play,  a  midsummer  day's  dream.  And 
every  one  was  gay  and  so  glad.  Edmund,  who 
with  exquisite  neatness  had  dressed  himself  in 
his  scant  best,  retreated  to  the  background  and 
stood  peering  through  the  press  of  luxury  and 
warmth  at  the  one  face, — the  one  face.  Elizabeth 
was  nervous  lest  he  might  go  mad,  his  eyes  were  so 
wildly  longing.  She  feared  that  just  at  the  leave- 
taking,  he  might  fling  himself  upon  her  and  cling 
as  he  had  clung  when  he  was  a  witless  child ;  or, 
having  parted  from  her,  he  might  hide  himself  in 
the  ship  so  as  not  to  leave  her.  She  had  a  hundred 
pretty  fears,  a  hundred  little  starts  and  frights  and 
terrors.  She  tried  to  keep  from  glancing  at  him,  his 
wistful  piercing  eyes  so  fastened  upon  hers.  And 


286    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

once,  only  once,  he  strode  through  the  multitude, 
and  folding  her  hand  in  his,  held  it  with  a  pressure 
that  cried  to  her  like  speech ;  it  was  as  if  nothing 
could  tear  him  from  the  mother  whom  he  had 
worshipped  afar  off  through  the  sad  long  years ! 

But  at  last  the  hour  set  for  sailing  was  upon 
them  all,  and  the  friends  who  had  trooped  to  the 
ship  with  their  joyous  good-byes,  waved  handker 
chiefs  from  the  wharf.  Elizabeth  had  seen  her  son 
go  ashore  with  them,  and  she  searched  for  his 
face  in  the  maze  of  faces.  He  was  not  there. 
The  hawser  dropped.  She  leaned  from  the  side 
of  the  ship,  and  at  the  final  instant  discovered 
him  alone  in  the  shadow  of  the  wharf,  grasping 
a  pile  with  both  hands  for  support,  his  face 
white,  his  eyes  straining  through  tears  to  catch 
the  last  glance  of  farewell  that  her  eyes  cast  be 
hind.  Little  marvel  that  years  later  she  could  still 
write  in  her  journal :  ' '  Oh,  what  a  moment  was  that ! 
His  earnest  despairing  look  was  photographed 
on  my  heart,  and  Time  has  never  effaced  it !" 

Frailer  and  more  ethereal  grew  the  steamer. 
Now  she  took  the  crests  of  the  sea  like  a  swimmer. 
Now  she  settled  to  the  trough  like  a  slumbering 


THE  DOORSTEP  287 

gull.  Soon  she  no  longer  seemed  to  move 
and  have  a  being.  She  dropped  below  the  hori 
zon  with  the  dissolving  lightness  of  a  cloud ! 
Edmund  was  alone. 

He  turned  back  from  the  eddying  waters. 
His  mother's  fondest  friend  had  gone  the  way 
of  the  world.  He  was  alone.  Too  bereft  to 
look  before  him,  he  stumbled  through  the  gloom 
of  the  wharves. 

His  mother  was  his  life  —  and  his  mother  was 
gone.  His  mother  was  the  reason  for  his  en 
deavors  —  the  cause  and  reward  of  his  efforts. 
His  mother  was  gone!  The  whole  world  was 
an  inn  to  him  now. 

Between  him  and  the  sun,  the  smoke  from 
climbing  chimneys  blew  like  flame  from  wall  to 
wall.  He  lifted  his  eyes.  Before  him  towered 
the  turrets  and  spires  of  a  mighty  metropolis 
more  marvelous  than  the  City  of  Brass.  His 
pulses  stirred;  he  drew  a  deepening  breath. 
This  was  the  city  that  he  had  dreamed  to  con 
quer  for  his  mother's  sake.  He  would  conquer 
it.  He  would  make  a  man  of  himself  for  his 
own  sake.  He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 


288    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

and  his  fingers  closed  upon  a  pencil.  He  would 
make  a  way  for  himself.  Nothing  should  stop 
him,  nothing  hinder.  He  would  strike  out  alone 
and  unhampered.  Pie  would  give  himself  to 
poesy.  He  would  cut  free  from  every  one. 

Ah,  but  he  could  not  forget  the  hyacinth  that 
Mary  had  nursed  into  bloom  with  her  wasting 
fingers !  He  thought  of  his  brother  Charlie. 
He  could  not  cut  free  from  Charlie ;  he  could  not 
cut  free  from  any  one  who  needed  him !  A  com 
passionating  tenderness  set  its  tremulous  touch 
along  his  lip.  He  had  given  himself  to  poesy, 
but  in  the  same  hour  he  gave  himself  to  Dame 
Care,  the  invited  fairy,  whose  outward  similitude 
is  grievous,  but  whose  ways  are  memories  of  con 
tent. 


XX 

THE  INFINITE  SHORE 

THE  graybeards  in  Norwich  Town  who  used 
to  quote  '  Seven  grains  to  the  hill  and  three  to 
the  harvest '  would  be  in  high  disfavor  nowadays. 
Nowadays  we  know  that  heaven  never  intended 
that  four  out  of  every  seven  children  should  die 
without  a  chance  to  play,  or  that  little  lads  should 
not  be  set  like  saplings  in  a  garden.  Edmund's 
youth  was  cramped  and  shaded,  yet  he  grew  to 
manhood  as  fair  on  every  side  as  a  tree  that  is 
surrounded  by  sun.  John,  the  Beloved  Disciple 
who  drank  of  the  chalice  of  life,  saw  in  visions  a 
land  that  needed  neither  sun  nor  moon.  Perhaps 
little  Edmund  who  loved  so  ardently  tasted  of 
that  same  chalice. 

His  mother  did  not  always  sail  away  or  dwell 
in  Tuscany.  Her  husband,  the  Honorable  Min 
ister,  died  at  fourscore  years,  and  Elizabeth, 


290    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

beautiful  in  a  youth  of  spirit  that  Time  could 
not  dim,  came  back  to  Edmund,  her  dearest  son. 
In  the  far  days  of  his  boyhood,  she  had  sat  on 
the  steamer  deck  throned  amid  flowers;  but  in 
her  latter  years,  she  sat  throned  in  the  home  that 
he  had  prepared  for  her,  clad  in  the  sweetest  silk, 
the  frailest  lace,  with  his  love  and  honors  at  her 
feet.  Her  hair  looked  even  more  ethereal  with 
the  silver  dust  that  Time  sprinkled  over  it  than 
with  the  gold  dust  which  her  fingers  were  wont 
to  scatter.  And  she  took  her  son's  face  in  her 
exquisite  hands  and  kissed  him  just  as  she  had 
kissed  him  in  his  childhood ;  and  her  eyes  welled 
with  happiness,  and  his  eyes  brimmed.  Edmund 
was  irrepressible  in  his  tenderness  of  her,  and  in 
a  kind  of  celestial  gaiety.  Whatever  his  cares,  he 
never  faltered. 

The  dryad  Anna  was  not  with  them.  Anna 
had  not  been  born  in  Norwich,  and  you  re 
member  that  not  to  have  been  born  in  Norwich  nor 
even  in  New  England  was  considered  an  unfor 
givable  blot  in  the  eyes  of  the  Elect.  When 
Edmund  had  come  home  again  from  college, 
Anna  was  gone,  —  flown  like  a  bird  before  frost. 


THE   INFINITE   SHORE  291 

Her  family  had  tried  to  live  through  the  wintry 
disapproval  of  Norwich  Town  and  win  a  crumb 
of  warmth.  But  the  Elect  would  not  open  so 
much  as  a  blind  to  them.  Nipped  with  the  cold 
at  last,  they  sold  the  Doorstep  House,  packed 
their  goods,  and  returned  to  the  unmentionable 
State  of  New  York  from  which  they  had  come. 
No  one  could  tell  Edmund  where  they  had  gone. 
What  did  Edmund  do?  He  waited  till  he  was 
twenty  years  of  age  before  he  married.  And 
then  he  married  a  little  wife  as  near  like  pretty 
Anna  as  one  young  lady  wren  is  like  another. 

Elizabeth's  old  friends  gathered  in  Edmund's 
home,  and  Edmund  came  and  went  as  self-for 
getful  as  in  the  days  when  he  was  giving  his  first 
surprise  party  and  handed  a  raspberry  vinegar 
to  Cousin  Lucrece.  But  after  his  marriage,  the 
party  was  his  own  private  affair,  and  he  paid  for 
all  the  cakes. 

Elizabeth  lived  to  see  her  son  honored  in  two 
continents  as  gentleman,  poet,  critic,  wit,  scholar, 
financier.  Her  dream  was  granted.  More  than 
all  else,  he  was  kind.  With  his  heart  of  song, 
he  followed  the  path  of  toil,  while  the  life  which 


292    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 

he  dreamed  to  live  emerged  from  a  mist  of  hopes 
like  one  of  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed,  only  to 
dissolve  and  disappear  in  the  sea  of  unselfishness. 
Noble  in  candor,  unswerving  in  loyalty,  touching 
in  sincerity,  fine  in  friendship,  chivalrous  to  a 
degree  beyond  the  comprehension  of  the  Philis 
tine.  He  never  spoke  or  thought  a  blighting  word. 
Narrowness  of  faith  was  not  in  him.  He  was 
afraid  of  nothing  in  life  or  death. 

He  turned  to  business  for  the  sake  of  earning 
leisure  for  poetry,  but  both  his  leisure  and  purse 
went  with  his  gift  of  himself.  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  if  he  had  not  spent  his  first-rate  powers 
on  third-rate  beginners  and  on  the  needy,  he 
would  not  have  been  constrained  to  toil  by  day 
and  work  by  night  as  best  he  could  manage  it.  It 
is  true.  But  there  is  not  a  word  in  any  gospel 
to  show  who  is  third-rate  or  who  is  first,  or  whether 
he  who  helps  his  brother  is  not  a  better  judge  of 
whom  he  helps  than  he  who  carps. 

Edmund's  interest  in  others  was  spontaneous 
and  without  measure.  He  did  more  to  encourage 
young  writers  both  in  America  and  England,  he 
gave  himself  in  more  ways  to  strengthen  literature 


THE  INFINITE   SHORE  293 

and  native  art,  he  was  more  widely  loved  than 
any  writer  who  foreran  him.  He  made  business 
an  art.  It  was  not  the  poets  of  America,  but  the 
"bulls"  and  " bears'7  of  Wall  Street  who  joined 
hands  and  furnished  in  his  name  a  room  in  Rome 
in  the  house  of  the  poet  Keats. 
He  wrote  of  Hay : 

"Love,  Honor,  rose  to  him  indeed, 
As  vapors  toward  the  sunlit  sky, 
But  his  the  generous  heart,  at  need, 
Without  a  pang  to  put  them  by." 

He  wrote  in  his  lines  on  Lincoln's  hand : 

"For  here  in  knotted  chord  and  vein 
I  trace  the  varying  chart  of  years  ; 
I  know  the  troubled  heart,  the  strain, 
The  weight  of  Atlas,  and  the  tears." 

He  spoke  of  his  friends  with  the  simple  direct 
ness  of  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley  who  spoke  of  her 
father;  and  Milton  wrote  to  the  Lady  Margaret 
Ley: 

"So  well  your  words  his  noble  vertues  praise 
That  all  both  know  you  to  report  them  true ; 
And  to  possess  them,  Honour'd  Margaret." 


294    A  NEW  ENGLAND  CHILDHOOD 
He  wrote  of  Song  : 

"  Bring  no  more  flowers  and  books  and  precious 

things ! 

0  speak  no  more  of  our  beloved  Art, 
Of  summer  haunts,  melodious  wanderings 
In  leafy  refuge  from  this  weary  mart ! 
Surely  such  thoughts  were  dear  unto  my  heart ; 
Now  every  word  a  newer  sadness  brings ! 
Thus  oft  some  forest-bird,  caged  far  apart 
From  verduous  freedom,  droops  his  careless  wings, 
Nor  craves  for  more  than  food  from  day  to  day ; 
So  long  bereft  of  wildwood  joy  and  song, 
Hopeless  of  all  he  dared  to  hope  so  long, 
The  music  born  within  him  dies  away ; 
Even  the  song  he  loved  becomes  a  pain, 
Full-freighted  with  a  yearning  all  in  vain." 

But  Joy  no  less  than  Care  ran  to  meet  Edmund ; 
he  knew  more  happiness  in  a  minute  than  many 
men  discover  in  a  lifetime.  And  to  the  last,  he 
laughed  the  laughter  of  a  boy.  He  never  let  go 
the  motto  which  his  mother  gave  him  in  his  boy 
hood;  he  kept  the  faith  of  Him  who  said  that 
the  second  commandment  is  like  unto  the  first. 
He  was  even  as  Enoch  whom  God  loved  —  and 
Enoch  was  not,  for  God  took  him. 


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